


Dead Men Don't Carry Guns

by MysticBT, pokemew12 (MysticBT)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadlock McCree, Hoooo boy I'm just getting started, No reread we die like men, On Hiatus, Origin Story, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Probably will not finish, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Tags will be updated accordingly, lots of headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-11 09:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticBT/pseuds/MysticBT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticBT/pseuds/pokemew12
Summary: Although Jesse McCree might not have necessarily been happy with his life in Deadlock, it certainly was better than spending lonely nights hungry and alone if not straight up dead. However, when Deadlock starts messing with with the wrong cargo shipments, his life is quite messily blow apart at the seams.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A McCree recruitment fic since I've seen only a few around and there really need to be more of these.  
> Please be gentle, this is my first fic, so any helpful feedback is appreciated!  
> Please forgive the terrible summary  
> No beta or reread we die like men. (inform me of grammar/spelling errors though please? :'D )

Restless was the best word he had to describe how he was feeling at the moment, although it didn’t completely hit the nail on the head. Anxious was another good descriptor, but again not quite right. In short, Jesse McCree wanted nothing more than for this godforsaken night to be done and over with, and apparently no amount of fidgeting would make it pass any faster. In truth, he’d never even wanted any involvement with this particular heist, nor last week’s if he was being honest with himself. No, Deadlock had poked the dog they never should have been within a hundred yards of, and Jesse knew that it would waste no time in turning around to bite them in the ass. Deadlock had raided an Overwatch weapons transport.  
  
Now, any gang that even the smallest desire to continue seeing the light of day, to breathe the air and taste his freedom, hell, to even live to see tomorrow, knew inherently that you didn’t fuck with Overwatch. They couldn’t be bribed, and if they caught anyone in their sights who had even a shred of ill intent, well you couldn’t expect to ever run into them again; at least not with them on your side anymore. There wasn’t any escaping after they’d caught wind of you, and everything they did was done with brutal efficiency.  
  
But McCree couldn’t _entirely_ despise them, unfortunately. He was well aware of what they’d done to bring about an end to the Omnic Crisis, and similarly couldn’t refute that Overwatch had done a damn good job back then. Thus, it’d also been because of his mixed feelings about the organization that he hadn’t wanted to open the can of worms that was stealing one of their weapons transports. Unfortunately, he was just the kid with a good aim. Deadlock didn’t give two shits about what he thought, and they made that point painfully clear on multiple occasions. Eventually, he gave up and settled for that fact that so long as he was shootin’ who they told him to when they told him to, he’d still have a place to sleep and food in his belly come nightfall, and that was good enough for him.  
  
Still, it hadn’t felt right. It’d been a train transport, and oddly enough an old train at that. Perhaps Overwatch had been trying to hide their cargo lines; and honestly he couldn’t have blamed them. Only a few cars had the loot they were after; the rest of them apparently carried grain or oil. Luckily, it’d be easy to spot the cars they needed. He and two other gang members had scoped the train out as it was loading the last few grain cars, and after that was finished and the train had started its gradual putter forward, they wasted little time in latching on to the ladders affixed to the side and scurried on up, using the darkness as their cover.  
  
They hadn’t been particularly quiet about it, but they hadn’t really expected anyone to be inside and figured that even if there was, the noise of the train clunking itself into motion had covered their hasty boarding. In the end, they were correct. The guys couldn’t have waited much longer than thirty seconds before they were popping open the hatch and Jesse was dropping in, putting bullets in the heads of the three unsuspecting agents inside almost before they could even look up to see what had just quite literally dropped in on them. With that, they got to work.  
They had spent the first few minutes gathering up assault rifles, assorted handguns, grenades, and the odd RPG and storing them accordingly into burlap bags. Once the Deadlocks had packed up as much as they could carry off, the oldest member, Will, clambered back up to the top hatch to get a read on how far they were from the exit point. If his grunt was anything to go by, it couldn’t be more than a minute away.  
  
Jesse gave a last glance to the corpses on the floor, untouched aside from a brief frisk, before turning away and glancing to the other gang member as Will dropped back down into the car. He was new, and couldn’t have been more than a handful of years older than Jesse, but he was one of the most ruthless men he’d met yet. They shared a brief nod with Will after the older man had pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes, and together the younger two set about moving to the left side of the car and prying the access door there open. It was half rusted and heavier than it had much a right to be, but they’d had it open before long. It gradually became noticeable that the train was dropping speed, likely in preparation for taking the curve in the track that served as their farewell to the lifeless bodies on the floor.  
  
The bags of weapons were tossed out first, the one containing the grenades done with slightly more care, before they each jumped in quick succession; first Wil, then McCree, and finally the young man who the sharpshooter couldn’t be assed to remember the name of. Each had tumbled to a stop several feet away from each other, and luckily stood with fairly minor bumps and bruises to show for it. McCree watched as the train chugged tirelessly away, and a scarce twenty minutes later a truck had pulled up to bring them back home.  
  
He took solace in that fact that he’d only had to shoot three men that night, but it was hardly a comfort. Speaking of, his left shoulder was still aching from the jump. Jesse gave a soft sigh as he rubbed the discomfort off before once again devolving to fidgeting. The train carrying the targeted transport was due to arrive soon, conveniently traveling right over Route 66 near the Panorama Diner. The tracks had been rigged up with explosives earlier that day, and McCree had made a point to stay a good distance away since then.  
  
Since his talent wasn’t needed, he’d settled just outside of Big Earl’s, sitting against one of the posts supporting the large ‘Welcome to Deadlock Gorge!’ sign. Anybody riding in the cars would likely be either dead or severely concussed by the time Deadlock started looting, so he’d been free to sit back and watch. The sun had just dipped below the horizon when he heard the approaching target, and the tension grew even stronger in his muscles. Soon. Hardly a minute later the engine of the train came barrel through on the tracks above, and just as swiftly the explosions had gone of and the cars came careening down.  
  
The dust had hardly settling by the time eager gang members were starting to pry the freight cars open, and those not actively participating waited on the fringes like vultures. Jesse stood and began making his way over, his curiosity driving him. When he was halfway over the cars were finally open, and suddenly there were cries of dismay in the air, heavily laden with confusion. He had just managed to hear someone shout “They’re fuckin’ empty!” when the first cracks of gunshots pierced the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially this was meant to be considerably longer, I actually only got around to 5 of my obscene amount of bullet points that were planned for this chapter, but since I'm tired and I'd really like to get this out today, chapter 1 has been split into 2(+?) parts. Jack and Gabe will be making their appearance next!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I just wanted to start by saying thank you for all the kudos, it really does mean a lot to me that people like what I'm producing! Second, I apologize for taking this long for the next chapter, so I tried really hard to make it longer for you all! I'm really trying to work on improving my writing, so any tips are appreciated!

The moment Jesse heard that first gun fire, he became acutely aware of just how completely and irreversibly fucked they truly were. He _knew_ that raiding one of Overwatch’s shipments couldn't possibly end well, but of _course_ no one had listened to him. He was just a kid; a damn good shot, but a child all the same. He still couldn't shake any of the guilt, though. McCree hadn't said anything against the raid when the higher ups had first brought it up. He hadn't spoken out. He'd just stood there, rooted to the spot as his fear of getting the crap beat out of him or worse warred with the terrifying prospect of attracting the full fledged wrath of Overwatch. Unsurprisingly he had decided that he feared his gang more. There was respect there too, of course; Deadlock was the closest thing he had left of a family and Jesse’d be damned if he would let this one slip through his fingers as well.

  
Still, with the sounds of this many guns being fired around him, it was hard not to have at least of bit of regret. Prior to all hell breaking loose, Jesse had been a few small steps from fully rounding the curve down towards where the train had been brought to it's untimely and flashy demise. He wasted no time in backtracking the few feet back to the small niche in the canyon wall to his right, and slipped into the cool, hidden passageway to gather himself before joining the shootout. The narrow opening was cloaked in shadows from the setting sun, and hopefully that would buy him some extra time to formulate some kind of plan of attack.

  
A quick frisk of his pockets produced seven loose bullets, plus six more already loaded in his revolver. McCree removed his stetson to feel around the small upturned flap going around the inside of his hat. It wasn't large; couldn't hold any item of any considerable size. He did find two more bullets and a bent cigarette for his trouble, and promptly pocketed the ammunition with the others while leaving the tobacco where it was for later.

  
Fifteen shots.

  
The sounds outside hadn't ceased, and he was more than a little reluctant to join the fray. It'd be best to stick to the shadows and fire from there, Jesse reasoned. He might be a damn good shot but those _were_ military trained soldiers out there, and he wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if the Deadlocks were outnumbered.

  
The young man ran a gentle thumb over the ink on his left forearm, steadying not only his breathing but also his mind for the danger to come. The Deadlocks were his family. Without them he’d reduce to nothing; be lost to the harsh desert climate. He’d do whatever he needed to ensure things didn’t change. With that, Jesse took one last moment to steady himself before drawing his old revolver and sneaking back out, quiet as a cat.

  
It became quickly apparent for but a fleeting glance that things were very much tilted against their favor. Deadlock wasn’t a terribly huge gang, probably no more than twenty-five guys and gals total. To his horror, there were easily around forty odd agents swarming the outlaws. Five large military vehicles were parked along the high right of the Deadlock Gorge, along with two grounded helicopters.

  
Luckily for him, it seemed the two closest agents had their backs turned, and unsurprisingly hadn’t heard him yet. It seemed they were attempting to subdue the lady who he always saw settled behind the counter of the Panorama Diner. She never much liked him and had chased the boy out of of restaurant with a swinging rifle more than once, but he couldn’t hate her. Seeing her also swinging said rifle towards the two encroaching also told him all he needed to know; she was already out of ammo.

  
It was a quick and easy decision; she might have been rough around the edges, but she was still Deadlock, still _family_ , and Jesse knew she never intended any real malice to him. At least not much. He wasted little time in lining up two shots, one to the middle of each of the soldiers backs, before promptly firing and rolling across the paved road and tumbling down to the lowered ledge at the edge of the actual gorge. It was wide enough to where he hadn’t been concerned about accidentally rolling off, but short enough that people couldn’t see the thing existed until they were practically standing right next to it. McCree distantly hoped that at least some of these men retained a healthy fear of heights and wouldn’t wander too close to his hiding spot out of pure curiosity.

  
Lucky him, though, he’d landed on his bad shoulder again in the short fall from the road to the ledge. Hurrah. Thankfully it wasn’t his shooting arm, but the point still stood. He waited for nine counts before quickly peeking up and letting off another shot, this time into the side of an agent moving around the wreckage of the train. He did, however, notice in that quick peek that the first two men he’d shot were suspiciously not dead. Huh. One had been escorting a familiar cuffed and struggling cashier out of the fray while the other had split off back into it.

  
It was that moment that Jesse actually stopped to _look_ at the agents he’d fired at, and too late noticed the body armor they all wore. It was black, just like their uniforms and blended in with them to a fair degree, but added an extra bulk to each of the soldiers. A bulk he should have noticed from the start.

  
He allowed himself a quiet curse and another look towards the skirmish, where it was quickly apparent that Deadlock was losing their fight. And while he felt fear for where he _knew_ his future was about to go, Jesse figured he never did really like to listen to reason and logic in tight situations anyway.

  
Twelve shots.

  
McCree knew for a fact that he could down at least six of the enemies with his special little ability, but to try and pull it off again within minutes was something he was decidedly less sure about. On one hand, he’d spent the majority of the day simply lazing around and had hardly exerted any energy in the shootout up to this point. On the other, Deadeye was a force to be reckoned with even on his end. It never failed to leave him with a throbbing migraine and vision out of his right eye was always blurry and strained for a few hours after. To top off the cake it always left him feeling drained and mildly lethargic until he could catch some shuteye.

  
But if he could pull it off, maybe it’d be enough to turn the tide in Deadlock’s favor. His companions weren’t useless in fights, in fact most were quite the opposite. They were a hardy group; never would have gotten this far in the first place if the local fuzz could have stamped them out. A distraction in Overwatch’s ranks might be enough to make a push back.

  
With that, Jesse wasted no time in popping open the chamber on his old revolver and plucking out the used shells before tossing them over the edge of the gorge to make any evidence harder to find. Three fresh rounds replaced them and the soft sound of the chamber clicking back shut brought with it a sense of grim finality. These weren’t people he _wanted_ to kill, but to be honest it was an open and shut case of ‘Us vs. Them’.

  
He gave himself an extra moment to take a deep breath, as if it might be enough to settle the fear in his chest. It wasn’t.

  
Without further fanfare Jesse once again pulled up out of his crouched position in the dust and dirt of nowhere, New Mexico. Unsurprisingly, the situation hadn’t much changed since he last checked twenty or so seconds ago. It felt different for all the world, though.

  
McCree rose just enough to get a clear view of his targets and get his gun was held barely above ground level. The world seemed to almost slow down for him, Jesse’s heart beating like a slow and steady drum. Six targets. He gave it half a second more, and felt an unpleasant wrench in his gut when one agent caught sight of him. The man never had a chance to say anything or warn his comrades. McCree’s gun fired so swiftly that it’d nearly all sounded like a single, drawn out shot.

  
He wasted zero time in dipping back below the line of sight, and took a small solace in the fact that the sound of his shots went echoing around the gorge. They wouldn’t be able to figure out where his shots had been fired from, at least not by sound alone due to the acoustics of the place. Not to mention there were still guns being fired by Overwatch and Deadlock alike. Unless someone could quickly determine the angle the men had been hit from, Jesse would be fine. He wouldn’t be found so easily.

  
Still, the rush of pain in his skull and eye didn’t make his life any easier, and he’d need to relocate at least a bit to soothe the nagging anxiety. Could never be too careful. Thus, he began the painstaking act of moving his ass fifteen feet closer to the train wreck. There were more targets there, and though it gave him a higher risk of being found, the skirmishing was the messiest and most distracting here.

  
He took care to move silently; not a scuff of his boots on a rock or a hiss of his leather vest on denim jeans. Invisible.

  
After settling with an equal lack of noise, McCree reassessed his options. His head hurt like hell. Granted, not as badly as it usually did after using Deadeye because he’d been loafing around all day. Vision in his right eye was slightly blurred, but not to a incapacitating effect. If he gave it a few precious minutes Jesse could probably pull off another Deadeye stint. Maybe.

  
McCree realized very quickly that he wasn’t made to sit around in the middle of a shootout. It lasted all of a minute and a half before he was twitching in unease and feeling and irrepressible _need_ to get back up and rejoin the fight. The feeling of a stake being driven through his skull as he made to stand was the only thing that stopped him. So instead he burned a short span of time reloading his six-shooter. Still didn’t feel any better.

  
Jesse felt far too twitchy just _waiting_ , though. Stationary gunslingers were _dead_ gunslingers, and he sure as hell didn’t want that.

  
The agony in his head was only enough to keep him down for another forty seconds before his paranoia finally became strong enough to come out on top. Once again, he hoisted himself up just enough to pick out six more targets. Luckily for his conscience, none of the unlucky men and women glanced his way this time. Unluckily, his right arm was shaking despite the fact that an unusually large amount of his attention was focused on holding it steady. His body wasn’t ready to pull this shit again so soon but he knew there wasn’t any other option.

  
He fired.

  
This time he collapsed back to his hidden safety. Still conscious, but feeling the fresh wrath from a new level of hell he hadn’t known existed. Nothing much else registered other than _pain_ and a and suddenly much less important fear that Deadlock might not win this. What would such a small thing as victory matter if the rest of his life was agony like this?  
He still noted the firing of gunshots, though thankfully they were growing further and further apart. Good riddance; for each one felt like a sledgehammer to his temples. Gradually he became aware that his right eye was held tightly shut of it’s own accord and his cheek was slick with something warm and slightly viscous. Blood and tears, probably.

  
Ten minutes later, the shots had nearly stopped, and he felt well enough to pull his carcass past the downed train towards the diner. He knew better than to leave the safety of his lowered ledge, and focused on simply getting from point A to B as quietly and gently as possible. After settling in his new location, he waited another two minutes before braving the nausea and risking a brief glance above ground once more.

  
A man was standing there. A man with his back turned to Jesse, wearing a long and impossibly bright blue duster. That man wouldn’t be standing there if Deadlock had won. He held the assault rifle in his grip with obvious experience, but loosely. Like he wasn’t expecting to need to use it, at least not anymore. It was also quickly apparent that this was a man of importance. Looking past him, Jesse could see hunched people being bodily dragged into a helicopter that had at some point landed at the base of the canyon wall, not too farm from the diner. His only remaining family. Being dragged away.

  
At that point, Jesse McCree gave in to the beast within him, and allowed his remaining adrenaline and fury to become his master. Right eye held firmly shut and pulling up to his full height with only minimal shaking from his exhausted body, McCree gripped his empty gun with purpose. Looking back, he couldn’t say what he thought he was going to achieve. He certainly knew that he’d need to bluff his way around the harmless shells in his revolver. Maybe he wanted to create a hostage of this man to earn his friends’ freedoms. Perhaps he desired to try his luck killing the man with a well aimed smack of his handgun. Even still he may have just decided that to die threatening this man was better than being flushed out of hiding like a rat and arrested when the agents did a thorough sweep of the area later.

  
Regardless of what he’d set out to do, Jesse would not stop until he did _something_. With rage dampening the intense pain he was feeling, McCree climbed back up to ground level and stalked towards the duster-wearing asshole before him. His actions made no discernible noise; he’d perfected the art of moving in complete silence years ago out of necessity. Dimly he recalled times of when his fellow partners in crime had given him shit over the clashing aesthetics; the hat and sharpshooting skills of a cowboy, the wardrobe of a biker, and the ability to move as quietly as a ninja. Back then, he’d hated it. Now, he felt small tugs in his chest at the prospect of never hearing them talk about it again.

  
To Jesse’s credit, when he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against Blue’s mess of sunshine colored hair, his arm only shook a little. It was easy to blame on the the taxing effect of overusing Deadeye, and completely worth it in light of watching Blue become aware of his situation entirely too late.

  
“I’d drop tha’ pretty gun a’ yours and raise ‘ya hands up nice ‘n high if I was in your shoes, friend,” McCree drawled, his voice cold, quiet, and level only due to the courtesy of adrenaline dominating his system. Slowly, Blue loosened his grip on the automatic weapon and Jesse couldn’t help but flinch when it clattered to the ground much louder than he would have liked.

  
Moments later, McCree’s eyes narrowed in thought. He _knew_ this boyscout in blue. Not personally, no, he’d never have had the chance to meet someone half as important as this guy came off to be. But Jesse knew him somehow, and to his eternal frustration the knowledge couldn’t quite tear through the fog of exhaustion and pain.

  
Well, as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat.

  
“Now turn ‘round fer me, nice ‘n slow. ‘Ere’s no honor in killin’ a man who can’t see his fate.” McCree kept his eyes and his gun trained on Blue’s head as the man complied, moving slowly and with careful movements. When their eyes finally met, the teen watched those fierce blue orbs very abruptly lose some of their fire, but the questioning barb died on his lips as he recognized the man before him. How could it have taken Jesse so long to realize who he was? _Everyone_ knew the guy, for fucks sake, because how could you not? The man who had turned the tide of the Omnic Crisis with little more than a small team of badasses when he was just a toddler. This man was a legend, and here McCree was, just a scrawny teen from a backwoods gang with just enough influence to fuck with Overwatch. A kid caked in more layers of dirt and grime than a pig, bluffing with an empty chamber and too much confidence in the face of none other than Jack fucking Morrison.

  
Jesse was well and truly fucked, and he knew his face betrayed how utterly shell-shocked he was, no matter how hard he tried to control it. His breathing stuttered, and suddenly all that anger from before drained from his bones with fresh waves of agony crashed in. The soft shades of color in the sky were suddenly far too bright for his brain to handle, his right arm and gun slightly lowered and shaking much more visibly, and on top of it all McCree felt his legs were seconds from giving out.

  
And suddenly, the young man found himself spinning around quicker than he thought possible, surprising not only himself but also the owner of the boot that had just crunched softly in the dirt behind him. McCree was met with the sight of two sawed-off shotguns in his face and had pulled the trigger on his peacekeeper on instinct before the dark man in front of him could react. Predictably, the firearm did nothing more than make a small clicking noise in place of the loud bang of a bullet being fired.

  
Jesse heard a flurry of movement behind him and like a cornered animal made an attempt to spin back around to face the threat he’d exposed his back to, but quicker than sin there was something hard slamming into the backs of his knees with the force of a semi. The teen’s hat went flying off and he let out a choked noise of pain and fear as he went down hard and fast, losing his grip on the revolver and reality for a brief moment.

  
That second was all it took for the other guy to flip Jesse onto his stomach and drop a heavy knee to the small of his back. Suddenly the nausea was raising its ugly head again as McCree gave in to weak but wild flailing, his head pounding with vengeance and his right eye leaking more blood. A sharp elbow connected with a well toned thigh and the man above him gave a grunt before he captured one bony wrist in a cuff. It was that moment that McCree felt tears and snot starting to mix with the mess of fluids on his face. He was scared and hurt and angry all at once and _godDAMMIT_ this wasn’t supposed it happen. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

  
In a futile, last-ditched attempt at retaliation the teen tucked tattooed arm under his belly, as if perhaps he could protect it there and save it from the cold steel that currently gripped his right wrist without mercy.

  
It didn’t, of course.

  
The appendage was pried out from under him without much trouble and swiftly snapped into the open cuff. Finally, the heavy knee was lifted from McCree’s back and and teen was unceremoniously dragged to his feet. Morrison was standing a bit to the left with an odd look on his face.

  
“You gonna behave, kid?” The voice behind him sound weary and exasperated.

Of course, Jesse chose to do the stupid thing.

The words had hardly made if out of the darker man’s mouth before McCree’s head went flying back into the other man’s face, connecting with what he figured was probably the guy’s nose given the audible crunch. There’d been some sort of pained and outraged shout from behind him, but it hardly registered as the teen went boneless and collapsed, the only thing keeping him off the ground being the soldier’s firm grip on his arm.

  
Jesse hadn’t actually thought the pounding waves of Deadeye’s torment could be made any worse, but clearly he’d been wrong. The sharpshooter’s vision had abruptly gone completely black before he was vomiting at his knees, his body no longer able to handle the torture being thrust upon it. Once his stomach was done the teen was reduced to shivering and soft noises of pain. McCree didn’t notice the aggravated shuffling behind him and only faintly registered the sudden sting in this thigh. When the strong pulls of dizziness finally dragged him under to the unfeeling abyss, Jesse couldn’t have found another thing in the world to be more thankful for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me, I don't actually know much about guns, and I think the internet can only help with that so much :'D I hadn't meant for the feelings in this to get quite so dark towards the end but it was honestly for the best to go about it in this way as opposed to what I'd previously planned. I haven't decided if I'll be rotating character POVs yet so in the even this doesn't get brought up later, I'll explain now. When Jesse got boxed in between Jack and Gabe, Morrison had quickly snatched his assault rifle up off the ground and smacked Jesse in the back of the knees with it pretty good. The thing that finally knocked the poor boy out at the end was a fast working anesthetic, packaged in something pretty similar to an epipen.
> 
> Also, I'd like to clarify a few headcanons relevant to this and perhaps future chapters!  
> One, Gabe is of Latino descent, and is unsurprisingly also bilingual. However, he doesn't have an accent in either language because he grew up in a home where English and Spanish were spoken interchangeably. This would be why his voice, as heard in the Uprising event, doesn't carry the same Spanish accent Sombra's does. While it is possible that his Spanish has an accent to compensate for that, I honestly like this route better ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Two, Jesse can move more quietly than even the Super Shimada Bros when he wants to. Jack and Gabe can't even hear him with their SEP hearing, which is how Jesse was able to get the jump on Jack here! This will become more important later~  
> Three, Jesse dresses similar to Torb's deadlock skin; all leather and denim and greasy teenage angst. He's 17 right now to stay canon compliant~ I picture him looking similar to this, with the addition of his stetson~ (also bilingual!)  
> https://noxdrawstrash.tumblr.com/post/154240816562/results-from-the-last-couple-streaming-sessions
> 
>  
> 
> Now, what with our two stars being fluent in Spanish, I have a bit of a dilemma. I can understand basic Spanish, but I don't trust my ability to speak or write it! So, for the parts in later chapters where this becomes relevant, there's obviously a problem. If any of you friendly readers are fluent, I would love to work with you! I'm pretty adverse to the idea of using Google translate or similar, so if no one steps forward, spanish text will likely be detonated with italics or used ^ instead of " as speech marks. Or something else. I dunno I'll figure it out :'D Also if anyone is looking to beta, let me know as well!


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long day for Blackwatch commander Gabriel Reyes, and unfortunately things were far from done. Finishing the sweep of the gorge was likely to take another hour and a half at the very least, and he could only cringe in sympathy for the clean up squad that would jump in after his crew was done here. He looked up from the wreckage of the train as he heard Liao plodding back towards him, tac gear showing signs of damage that weren’t there earlier that day, but otherwise no worse for wear. The man was uncharacteristically grim, Gabe noted.

“Report?” The commander demanded, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Liao wasted little time responding.

“Eighteen casualties, sir. Eleven dead and seven more in various states of wounded.” Liao’s voice is softer than usual, lacks it’s ever present fire. Gabe can’t really fault him on it. He feels his own throat grow tight, and gives a sharp nod of acknowledgement. Eleven. Nearly a dozen of his own men and women who wouldn’t be going back to their friends and families, Or at least, not in the way anyone wanted.

The mood quickly became somber, and the following few minutes were spent speaking softly about the progress of the sweep and state of the remaining Deadlocks. At least, until the darker man felt the back of his neck bristle in something not quite fear, but instead more akin to wariness.

He swiveled around, his dual shotguns out of their holsters at his thighs and at chest level before he had even completed the turn. Only, to his surprise, there was nothing. Just a dozen or so feet of red dust before the steep drop-off into the deepest part of the gorge. Liao, to his credit, had only taking half a step back, and had his hand resting over his own holstered weapon.  
“Sir?” Reyes remained silent, his brow furrowed in concentration. The prickling at the base of his skull hadn’t abated, and itched at something in his mind. Nobody had a gun pointed at him unless it was a sniper, and he was willing to be Deadlock didn’t even know the word. So it couldn’t be him. Which meant…. _Jack_.

Once again he found himself whipping around before moving a few steps forward and risking a glance under the wreckage. He left the guy alone for /five minutes/ to get a feel for the current situation and Morrison already had a firearm to his head. Typical over-trusting boyscout.

Despite it all, the guy stupid enough to hold a gun to the Strike Commander’s skull needed to be stopped, and quickly. A fraction of a second later he was signalling Liao to stay put and swiftly moving around behind the train cars to flank, silent as the dead. Morrison had dropped his assault rifle by the time Gabriel had made it to the other side of the train, and had slowly spun around to face the dirty rat when Reyes was no more than ten feet back. The Blackwatch commander had but a second to absorb the stunned look on Jack’s face, surprisingly not directed at him but the desert scum instead.

What actually gave him away, Reyes could never be certain. His boot could have scraped in the dirt. Perhaps he’d shifted some dust louder than he’d thought. Regardless, Gabriel’s heart nearly stopped beating when the dirty upstart before him swiftly spun and pulled the trigger of the rusty revolver in his grip. The first thing he noticed was that the asshole who’d had a gun trained on his best friend was nothing more than a kid. A dirty, bleeding, and clearing exhausted kid, who couldn’t have been any older than sixteen. There was a copious amount of blood on the left half of his face, all seemingly originating from the eye that was tightly held shut. It had thoroughly soaked the originally red bandana at his neck and dribbled down the front of his sleeveless leather jacket. The second thing he realized was that there was no bang to accompany the firing of the clearly ancient firearm.

_That little shit._

The fucker had not only been bluffing an unloaded gun but had succeeding in tricking _both_ of them. Two experienced soldiers with enhanced senses and actual training to detect this sort of thing. Both fooled by a /child/ in a dead end gang that the government had finally decided needed to be wiped off the map after it’d caused enough inconveniences over the years.

Fuck.

In Reyes’ moment of stunned gawking, Jack had dropped to the ground to snatch up his rifle. The kid tried turning around to face the man he’d shown his back to but was only able to complete half the rotation before Morrison's firearm was smashed none too gently into the backs of his knees.

Unsurprisingly the young man went down swiftly and with a pained shout, the ridiculous hat and old revolver going flying. Gabe wastes little time flipping him over to his stomach and dropping a knee in the middle of the kid’s back as he fished a pair of cuffs from a pouch on his belt. A soft grunt falls from his lips as a pointy elbow makes a jab at the older man’s thigh, but there is little resistance as the cool metal clicks around the kids right wrist. He can't help but feel a little bad as the remaining arm is swiftly hidden under a lean torso, and with a sigh he pried it out and cuffed it as well.

Gabe hadn’t expected the tattoo, though. On the gangster's left forearm was a poorly done rendition of the Deadlocks’ emblem. With obvious scarring intermixed throughout and the color seemingly faded, he couldn't help but wonder how long the kid might have had it. Or if it was even done with consent.

As he helps the young man up he can't help but absently hope that the kid hadn't been too involved in the fight. How sad it’d be for one whose life just begun to spend the rest of it in max. He risks a quick glance to his left to see the look of pity and distress written all over Jack's face, and he can't help but secretly agree. He wonders how the little shit even managed to get the drop on a super soldier in the first place and files the question away for later.

Above it all, they're both exhausted, and it shows.

“You gonna behave, kid?” Gabe’s voice was weary, and his thoughts of getting the kid to transport and then himself to a nap were very rudely interrupted when pain blossomed in his nasal cavity with a wet crunch.

Of _course_ the little fucker had some fight left.

The snarl had already left Reye’s lips before he realized the ingrate had dropped to his knees and began emptying his stomach in earnest. The pang of pity the soldier felt for how utterly weak the Deadlock was to only be still upright due to his iron grip was swept up in the rage at such a bold move. Serves him right, maybe he wouldn't try to recklessly throw his skull at a super soldier again. The fact that the kid was vomiting from just a bump on the head was mildly concerning, but was a question for a later date.

By the time Reyes had snagged a tranq from one of his pouches the ingrate had finished retching and simply kneeled, shivering and swaying with apparently more nausea. Regardless, he had no desire to have to deal with the little shit again until he was securely in one of Blackwatch’s interrogation rooms. Without further fanfare he popped the blue cap off one end and none too gently stabbed the opposite into the meager meat of his prisoner’s thigh. Kid was down for the count a lot faster than Gabriel expected; couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before all 140 lbs. of dirty teenager went dead limp.

The Blackwatch commander knelt in the dirt and hefted the kid over his shoulder like a bony sack of potatoes before he once again stood and started on his way over to the prisoner transport.

“Pick up his hat and gun, yeah?” The question was tossed back over his unladen shoulder towards Morrison and probably sounded more like an order than a request, but Gabe couldn’t find it in his mind to care right then and the scrabbling behind him indicated Jack was quick to obey anyway.

The walk to his destination was blessedly a quick one, and Gabe stepped up into the armored chopper after the agent standing guard at the entrance moved aside. It was nicely sized; having twelve actual seats with safety harnesses along the walls and a copious amount of space between them. Given a reason to, it wouldn’t be impossible to fit nearly two dozen soldiers although it wouldn't necessarily be _comfortable_ for anyone involved.

There were four other Deadlocks already in the transport, all cuffed and strapped into their seats with none seated directly next to each other. All but one was sedated, and the young woman very purposely didn't look his way. Gabe also noted with curiosity that although they collectively all wore leather and fit the biker aesthetic, none had also added the cowboy look to it like the kid had with his hat, bandana, and cowboy boots.

The sack of shit was dropped on one of the chairs lining the walls, head lolling almost comically if only this hadn't been an underfed and profusely bleeding child. The commander did a quick frisk for other weapons and injuries, and only came up with a rusty pocket knife and the lump forming at the back of his head where he'd headbutted Gabe. Aside from that, it was just the kid’s eye.

The bandana around his neck was even more thoroughly waterlogged with blood that it had been a few short minutes ago, and it was painfully clear but the constant dripping from his jawline that the Deadlock's eye was still bleeding like tomorrow was the end of the world. To be fair, in the kid’s boots it might as well have been.

Reyes wasted little more time before he was kneeling and working to pry the kid’s bleeding eye open, fighting against the slick of blood and tears coating his face and now Gabe’s gloves. When he did finally manage to open the eyelids, the commander was pleasantly surprised to still find an eyeball in the socket. The pupil was constricted down to the smallest possible size and nearly overrun by the rich brown iris, the sclera almost completely overrun with red, and several other capillaries clearly burst in the socket producing the copious amounts of blood, but the eye was still there. To be honest he was sure he wanted to know what sorts if opiates were in this kid’s system to make his eye do that.

Out of habit Reyes pried open the Deadlock's other eye, despite the fact that it wasn't dripping blood there were plenty of drying tears. This one was fairly easier to open, and Gabe paused once he had it open. No blood anywhere, not even in the sclera. That was to be expected. But the pupil in this one wasn't constricted. Slightly dilated from the eyelid having been closed, sure, but it adjusted to a slightly smaller size as it reacted subconsciously to the light. Only one eye was affected. That wasn't how any normal drug worked and if anything it made him fear for the kid even more. Again, he found himself hoping the kid had been an uninvolved party accidentally swept up in the undertow and wished for nothing more than to get this kid back in a good home.

With a sigh he let the upstart’s eyelid fall closed and stood, glancing to Jack, who had waited outside the transport. Liao had walked over at some point and chatted quietly with him. Morrison only held the old cowboy hat, the gun presumably passed off to forensics. Both men looked up as Gabe came closer, Liao popping off a quick salute. Reyes waved it off and instead focused his attention on the strike commander. He didn't seem any worse for wear or much or tired than usual, so what had happened? He ran a gloved hand down his face and sighed.

“Jack, explain to me how the hell was that half dead rat was able to get the drop on you. Why would you even let an enemy get that close to you?” His voice betrayed his exhaustion if Liao’s subtle shift of concern in his expression was anything to go by, but right then Reyes didn't particularly care. “He's hopped up on some form of strange opiates if his pupils are anything to go by, and on top of that the kid is literally just that; a scrawny child mixed up in a bad place.” Morrison frowns, his picture perfect boy scout face scrunching up in a clear display of distress and unhappiness.

“Gabe, I couldn't hear him until that pistol was sitting against my skull. You and I both know we hear damn near hear everything, and I swear to God above that the kid might as well not have existed until his gun touched me.” Gabe couldn't help but give a soft snort.

“This is Deadlock Gorge, not Japan. He couldn't have possibly been as quiet as one of those damn ninja. You're slipping, Jack.” Morrison immediately bristled, Liao wisely keeping his mouth shut.

“I know what I did and didn-” Gabe raised his hand in a silencing gesture as he dragged the other down his face and snagged the tacky hat from the strike commander’s hands.

“Can it, boyscout, we’ll talk about this later,” he yawns out. “We’re both too tired for this shit. Liao, keep an eye on things and don't be afraid to come get me if anything crops up.” His second in command promptly nods and Reyes wastes little more time before walking off to his designated transport, leaving behind a furious Jack Morrison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was another chapter that I intended to go further, but I wanted to put something new out for you all to read so i stopped here.  
> Just a few small notes, Jack carries a fairly standard assault rifle as opposed to his canon pulse rifle because those were an experimental weapon in the games present day, and its unlikely something like that would be in prototype for nearly 20 years. So no pulse rifle for Jack. His gun _is_ tricked out with helix rockets though!  
>  Secondly, Jack and Gabe are multilingual being the heads of organizations that encompass the entire world. Jack can speak English, French, Spanish, and just a little German while Gabe knows English, Spanish, and Russian. The spanish will be our main focus though ;)
> 
> Finally, how far would you all like to see this go? I've got a few plans for during Blackwatch but also a few more reaching up through post-recall. Tell me what you think, and thanks for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I'd just like to say thank you for all the kind comments and patience you've had with me! This will be the last Gabe chapter for a while, and after this one it's back to our regularly scheduled Clint Eastwood knockoff programming! <3 As always, let me know if there's anything funny with spelling or grammar!

Gabe wastes little time heading back to his designated transport, and thanks whatever resides above that no one tries to pull him aside. Or succeeds, anyway. One of the greener medics had caught sight of his nose in all of its bleeding and undeniably crooked glory, quickly standing. Reyes himself had picked up his pace at that, and lets out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as he watches an older staff member stopping the well intentioned young man before he can even take three paces. The commander catches the swift shake of a head from the corner of his eye before he makes his way out of range of any immediate danger (medical assistance) and to the aircraft assigned to the higher-ranking participants of the sting.

To be honest, it wasn’t all that different from any of the other transports that had come along for this op. While the ‘criminal cab’, as his agents jokingly called it, was sparse to the bone for obvious reasons, the other three aircraft they’d flown in with had a bit more accommodation to them. Extra storage space, marginally more comfortable seats, and in general cleaner and less blood covered, for example. There was usually a spare deck of cards or three stuffed in some niche or another, and one of the carriers actually had a small card table wedged between the seats and the wall. While it wasn’t strictly speaking authorized to be there, Gabe himself made a point of pretending it didn’t exist because it didn’t cause too many problems and his agents were well aware that it could and would go flying into someone during the less than smooth flights.

He wasted no more time climbing up into the belly of the aircraft, and was relieved to see it was devoid of people, at least for now. After snagging his tablet from a bag beside his seat and dropping the tacky western hat and his shotguns on top of it, Reyes made his way over to the nearest empty wall and sat down facing it, no more than two feet away and cross legged. He sets the tablet to interior video feed to act as a makeshift mirror, and settles it at an angle against the wall. His nose is bent awkwardly with messy streaks of blood under it, and the dull throb of pain reminds him that it he waits much longer he won’t be able to set it on his own. He removes the red eyepiece on the right side of his face and sets it down next to him before continuing.

“Commander Reyes, it would be wise to seek medical attention,” a familiar voice informs from the tablet; a small red ‘A’ appearing in the top right corner of the screen. Without missing a beat, it continues, “While I am aware you are more than capable of setting your nose yourself, the bullet graze on the back of your thigh could likely use at least a cursory examination.”

With a sigh Gabe leans in closer to the tablet to get a better look at what he’s doing before beginning the process of getting the bone and cartilage back in it’s proper spot.

“Acknowledged, Ares, now shut the hell up and let me fix this.” His voice is weary, that much he knows. Knows that Ares hears it to and is likely filing that information away for later so it can be used as leverage against him when Gabe spends an hour or two too long tonight working through all the paperwork this sting generated. And while on some level he’s glad that Ares keeps close tabs on his vitals, sleep schedule, and eating patterns, it’s also irritating in way reminiscent of an overbearing parent and sometimes the commander just doesn’t have the patience the AI deserves. Not that Ares has the patience for him and his antics anymore, either, as small ding from the tablet informs him.

Gabe stops, his hands moving away from his nearly straight nose and the deep frown across his face mirrored in the tablet’s video feed.

“Ares. What the fuck did you just do?” His voice is flat, though the anger isn’t muted.

“Dr. Murray has been informed of your injuries and will arrive shortly with the necessary materials to treat your leg as well as mandatory palliatives for pain and inflammation,” Ares informs him, and if Gabe was hearing it right, with an undertone of smugness. The groan he gives sounds infinitely more pained than he feels, and he looks skyward as if there was anything there that help him.

“No, stop- Just. Tell him I’ve got it sorted out already alright? He’s got bigger fish to fry, I know for a fact that some of my agents need his expertise more than I do.” He won’t resort to begging, refuses to, but can’t control way his voice almost sounds pleading.

“Request denied,” Ares shoots back, without thought or hesitation. Another groan bubbles from his throat; he doesn’t  _ want  _ to deal with people right now, much less Murray’s firm bedside manner where Reyes and his ‘one man army bullshit’, as the doctor called it, is concerned.

“Ares I swear to fuck if you don’t cancel that order in the next five seconds I will  _ personally _ delete that file in your databanks named ‘nice things’ and I’ll do it without remorse,” Gabe tries, his voice as cold as he can manage around the nasally undertones. For whatever reasons, his AI had at some point adopted an affinity for various cold blooded animals, specifically sea turtles and bearded dragons, and used it’s internet privileges for amassing image and video files of them. They were all saved in a nondescript folder hidden in a deep file path, and Gabe had only happened across it at one point a few months back while trying to work out a bug in Ares that was causing it to mark every incoming message and transmission as urgent when they, in fact, were not. Not all of them, anyway.

The AI stays quiet for a moment, the silence growing to a pregnant pause as he undoubtedly weighs the chances of being able to hid or otherwise back up that folder to protect it against the commander’s ability to find it when it’s inevitably moved to a new file path.

“Request denied,” Ares repeats, although Gabe can hear at least a small amount of hesitance in the statement. His hands settle on the floor in front of him as he leans closer to the tablet, drawing in a breath for a rant.

“Ares I  _ made you, _ you can’t just directly disob-”

To his right, he hears someone purposefully clearing their throat, and Gabe's words die on his lips as he swivels his head around to see Murray standing at the top of the ramp he himself had walked up mere minutes ago on his quest to get some privacy. The other man isn’t much older than Reyes, but the constant frown adorning his face adds to his age in the same way Gabe’s scowl does to himself. The surgeon’s hair is close cropped, just a bit shorter than Jack's, and if he looked hard enough he could spot a few scattered gray hairs intermixed in the warm browns.

If Murray’s firm stare is anything to go by, he isn't any more willing to deal with Gabriel’s stubbornness today than he is any other day of the week. The other man waited, eyebrow raised expectantly.

“Well? Are you going to get up off the ground so I can do my job or do you plan to sit there moping until we touch down at base?” Gabe’s frown deepens, but he doesn't answer. While he didn't intend to spend the rest of his day sitting there, he would if it meant his doctor would leave him alone. When the commander doesn't respond, Murray takes a few steps closer and takes on a hard stare.

“Commander, I'll give you ten seconds to stop being a useless lump on the floor and move to an actual seat. I  _ do _ happen to have other people waiting on me and if you continue to fight me on this I just might decide that a tranquilizer pen is the best course of action.” The man's voice is as cold and hard as steel, and Gabe can't help but bristle from it. 

Very quickly, he weighs his options. There is a possibility that he’d be able to outmaneuver the doctor; make it down the ramp and away, maybe merge in with one of the teams working on flushing out any stray rats. However, it's equally likely that Murray would get him with the pen before he got more than a few steps away; it'd happened several times before. To be honest Gabe wasn't even sure what they'd put in the job description when they'd been out hiring a physician to ‘babysit’ him, as they called it, but the other man was a fairly decent match to his reflexes, SEP be damned. Gabe still won out in strength, but muscles could only do so much if Murray was fast enough to tag him with that needle.

In the end, his shoulders slump in defeat as Gabe picks himself up off the cold metal of the floor. That doesn't mean he misses out on sending his tablet one last withering glare, but he gets the feeling Ares is ignoring him and once again studiously working away at some of the paperwork that comes with a sting this size.

The commander gathers the tablet and his eyepiece from the floor before standing and unenthusiasticly dragging himself back to the seat he’d claimed this morning and the bag holding the rest of his things. Murray stays close on his heels, no doubt expecting Gabe to pull something. To be honest Reyes can't blame him for being suspicious. The items in his hands are quickly deposited in the bag alongside everything else for later, and with resignation he settles in his seat.

To be fair it doesn't take Murray more than ten minutes to have his nose sitting right again and stitches holding shut the moderate graze on his left leg. It throbs with a dull pain in time to his heartbeat and if he shifts too far Gabe can feel the unpleasant pulling sensation he’s come to associate with the sutures holding his skin together.

He was, however, still miffed that both Murray and Ares had disregarded the fact that treating him for such minor injuries was a waste of time for all parties involved. The SEP had given both Gabe and Jack several perks, the most notable being the increased strength, stamina, senses, and rate of healing. They were all fully aware that his nose and the graze would be nothing more than memories three days from now, even if Ares hadn't gone above Reyes’ head and gotten his doctor involved. Murray wasn't wrong when he’d mentioned having other people waiting for his expertise, and while that fact that he was here caring for Gabe’s relatively unimportant injuries meant no one was dying, the point still stood.

It was the fact that some of his own agents might still be waiting on the doctor that he downed the three little tablets given to him without much fuss. The other man was clearly not going to tolerate Gabe refusing them. Although it was just another waste of supplies in the commander's opinion, it'd be and even bigger waste of time to argue about it that would more likely than not end with a tranq pen in his ass. Right now, Reyes couldn't afford to spend a solid six hours of his work day passed out cold, not with the sting they'd just pulled. They both knew it and Murray used it against him, the smart bastard.

The surgeon rattled off the anticipated spiel; what to expect from the nose break, physical activity limits in relation to his stitches, the medication could induce drowsiness, and an order for Ares to contact Murray if any pain flared up unexpectedly or other symptoms appeared. For his part, Gabe nodded along and kept his mouth shut for once and before long the doctor was on his way.

“You aren't off the hook for that, you know,” Gabe informed, and he almost wished he could say he was surprised when the AI didn't respond to or even acknowledge his words. The little shit  _ was  _ Gabe’s creation though, so hoping Ares could act respectable like Athena did was as futile as wishing for snow in July down in Mexico. Without much further delay, he snatched the tablet from his bag and made himself as comfortable as the seats allowed and got to work on mission reports.

It wasn't until ten minutes and several typos later that Gabriel realized how exhausted he felt. Also concerning was the speed at which he was crashing. He felt to be weighed down by lead, limbs heavier than the biggest barbells he'd witnessed Reinhardt lift and his eyelids seemingly forgetting how to stay open. His head felt all fuzzy, senses drowned out by a layer of thick cotton. Astoundingly Reyes manages out a slurred sentence with something akin to panic in his voice before sleep dragged him under.

  
  


\-------

  
  


The first few moments after waking up are soft and quiet, even blissful in a way. It's been awhile since he'd slept so soundly, and Gabe sighs softly in content. Until he realizes that it's a bed he's laid out on. His bed, in fact. In his quarters at Grand Mesa. Except the last thing he remembers was the choking fear following the realization that he’d be drugged on the transport. Murray.

Reyes abruptly sits straight up and nearly falls back down after a wave of dizziness hits him; likely from moving too fast. He can feel residual panic gripping his chest and his breath came in short gasps.

“Ares,” he pants out, “Ares what the hell happened.” It isn't a question, the tone of his voice making it a demand.

“Please remain calm, Commander Rey-”

“I will  _ NOT  _ keep calm after getting drugged and waking up somewhere else!” he roared, fear and anger sour in his mouth. “The very man meant to keep me in good health gave me some sort sleep medication  _ without _ my knowledge or consent. I want Murray put on leave and we’re starting an investigation.”

“The anaesthetic was administered at my request, sir,” his AI helpfully informed, leaving Gabe at loss for words. “With all due respect, you required rest and were not going to get it if I allowed you to continue on as you were. Commander, by the time you fell asleep, you'd been awake for thirty-seven hours. Prior to that you only had four and a half hours of rest, fitful if I may add.” The beginnings of an argument were rising in his throat but Ares continued without letting Reyes butt in. “While I am well aware of your super soldier status, even you have your limits, and they are far less than what you insist on putting yourself through.”

To even his surprise, he didn’t have anything to say back to that. It was true, but... Well, if he was being honest with himself he didn’t even really have much of an argument besides that fact that things need to get done, to which he knew Ares would point out that he had Liao to help him along with the AI itself. ‘That’s the point of having a second in command,’ his AI would tell him, ‘Why have an assistant if you won’t let him help you,” Ares would argue.

Gabe let his shoulders slump in defeat and instead changed gears.

“How long was I out for?” he questioned, dreading the answer but needing to know how much work time he missed out on.

“Approximately three and a half hours,” he’s informed, and the tone implies Ares is almost bitter about it. “I had hoped you might sleep for a full eight for a change, but I suppose it wasn’t meant to be this time around.”

The vertigo in Gabriel’s head had finally faded enough for him to look around, and there’s a small amount of relief in him as he spots his travel bag on the small desk across the room, dirty and faded cowboy hat set delicately next to it.

“This had better not happen again,” he warns, pausing as he swings his feet to the edge of the bed and the dizziness weakly tries to strike again.

“Understood, Commander Reyes,” Ares promises. Or at least he hopes it’s a promise.

His combat boots are off, settled neatly to the left of him, near the end of the bed. Otherwise, the rest of his tac gear was still on. Vaguely, Reyes wonders who they’d had lug him in. Standing at 6’1” and made of pure muscle, the only thing he could be certain of was that as dead weight, it wouldn’t have been an easy task.

When he feels the dizziness fade again a minute later Gabe stands and strides to his desk with purpose, fishing the tablet from the bag.

“What have I missed out one when I was busy getting my beauty sleep?” he questions, quickly flipping through for any new emails or messages.

“Forensics has uncovered some interesting findings, sir,” he’s informed. “Of the eleven agents that died during the operation, the gun belonging to the young man you apprehended earlier fired ten of the fatal bullets.” Gabe pauses at that, a frown deepening on his face.   
“You’re trying to tell me that a damn  _ kid  _ is responsible for ten of my agents not coming back with us alive? I’m not buying it. That gun had to have belonged to one of the other guys, kid must’ve picked it up in the middle of the firefight or had it passed off to him-”

“There has only been one set of prints found on the revolver so far, Commander. So far all of those prints have matched to the set we took of the boy upon touchdown to base. There is currently no evidence that the firearm belonged to anyone else. I should also mention that three more shots were linked from that gun to agents wounded today.”

A kid. That scrawny piece of desert scum had killed ten of his finest, hurt three more, snuck up on an enhanced super soldier, and nobody had answers for any of it. On top of it all, the kid was messed up on _ something,  _ and Reyes wondered if that could have been one of the contributing factors to this madness. Jesus fuck, if there was something out there that could do this to such and twig of a kid, he feared what would happen if something like that was used on anyone even marginally more capable.

“Ares, get medical to take a blood sample from the kid and have them scan it for substances. We’re probably looking for opiates but it’d be smart to have them keep any eye out for anything else unusual,” he orders, scrubbing a hand over his face as he does so.

“On that note, Sir, the boy is currently under medical watch and has been given a blood transfusion since returning to base. Unless the situation has changed in the last half hour, the blood flow originating for his eye still has not ceased. Would you like medical to continue administering transfusions as needed, Commander Reyes?”

“Yeah, tell them to do whatever they need to for the kid to stay alive,” Gabe says, exhaustion already creeping back into his voice despite having only just woken up. “This kid has some answer for me and I’d hate for him to die before I get them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So essentially Ares is the Blackwatch equivalent to Athena and yes Ares is the biggest piece of shit, although Gabe really only has himself to blame for that! The red eyepiece mentioned in this chapter is essentially just like Jack's from his strike commander skin, only red and linked to Ares instead of Athena. Personally I headcannon that Gabe has some techy skills and worked hand in hand with Liao to make both Athena and Ares, although Athena is much more friendly and accessible in most every location of the Watchpoints where Ares has way higher security measures built in and really only be found on approved Blackwatch devices (such as as tablets and comm devices belonging to Blackwatch agents) and a few specific rooms on any given watchpoint (Reyes' room, office, interrogation chambers, and one or two of the Blackwatch specific meeting rooms).  
> I'd also like to mention that no, Gabe doesn't hate doctors, he just has things to do and if he isn't dying he doesn't care enough to stop what he's doing to get medical attention because he relies heavily on that fact that he heals super fast. (Essentially a callout to all the friendly Reapers who go do their flanking thing and then never come back to me for healing (and subsequently die), as well as all the enemy Reapers that dive in on my sorry Mercy ass and die when I tell my team to deal with the edgelord behind us :U )


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for waiting, it's been like 2 (3?) months since the last update and I feel terrible! q.q Did my best to make it a bit longer and more descriptive than usual to help make it up to yall! (4.1K! ;D )
> 
> Enjoy!

It feels like he’s floating, and the steady, repeating beep sounding off in the background is comforting in a way. There are other, softer murmurs of sound in the background, but everything is watered down and seems so very far away. It's peaceful in a way Jesse can't recall having experienced since he was small. And so he enjoys it for as long as it allows him.

Time is indistinguishable, but it feels like all too soon that the far off noises gradually become louder, the steady beep growing slowly faster and more shrill in his ears. The floaty feeling leaves, although whatever he’s passed out on is far comfier than the hard packed desert earth Jesse has grown accustomed to over the years. Maybe Sam had taken pity on him again and let him sleep in the back of her truck again. Strange, though, the dry scent of dust is missing. In its place is something…. artificial smelling. In addition to it, he catches the subtle hints of a lemony cleaning product. 

It was nice, but altogether wrong in every way the teen knew.

Their little town on Route 66 didn’t have any of these smells, not by a long shot. The most pleasant scent there by any stretch was the shitty coffee down at the diner, and to be honest it probably tied with the gasoline. The distinct stench of blood and sweat was missing too, and there wasn't a damn place anywhere in Deadlock Gorge missing those.

No, this place wasn't his home. It's that realization that sucks him to the surface of consciousness.

The beeping was growing steadily faster, and it's at that point Jesse realized it tapped in time to his heartbeat. Heart monitor. Hospital?

It's then that his breathing catches, the beeping grows nearly intolerable, and his eyes snap open. Well, one of them anyway. His right eye was covered with something, and keeping the lid open under the covering was uncomfortable and pointless. There was a dull aching behind it in his skull somewhere, but nothing intolerable. His left eye, though, took the full force of bright lights right away, and with a hiss Jesse squinted and blinked until it was at least marginally tolerable. It'd triggered a small headache, which while unpleasant, was manageable.

The world finally blurred into focus a few precious seconds later, and to his surprise and dismay, there wasn't a lot to see. The back of his bed (an honest to god bed) was propped up at a gentle angle, giving the teen a better view of the curtains surrounding him on each side. They were attached to three different bars that ran along the ceiling, one to each side of the bed. If he craned his neck enough Jesse could see a bit of the wall behind him.

To his left was a wide array of monitors, the only one he recognized and understood showing sharp peaks along the top third of the screen and emitting those shrill beeps. The lower half of the screen showed three other graphs of some sort, but Jesse honestly couldn't have even guessed what they were showing. There were two other screens stacked on top and alongside the first, also full of what was essentially a foreign language to him. A drip bag hung from an IV pole behind and just to the right of everything, and lazily followed the line it led to his arm with his eye.

The IV itself connected in the crook of his left elbow and from there he noted the little clothespin thing on his index finger. Jesse gave it a curious wiggle and was surprised that when he tried to lift his arm closer to his face for a better look, it stopped abruptly, caught in a leather cuff of some sort attached to the edge his bed. A quick glance to the right finds his other arm also bound, small tugs proving useless. Sheets were laid across him up to mid torso, and with curiosity he regarded the weird little sticker things he could feel attached to his chest under the hospital gown.

An honest to god hospital.

What had happened…? There was a light fog over his brain that still hadn't dissipated after waking up, and the thrumming of his heart combined with tight fear lurking just under the haze didn’t help matters. Something had gone seriously wrong but the question was  _ what- _

Oh. Ohhhhh no. The train. The sting. That stupid ass stunt he pulled at the end. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. This probably wasn't even a hospital; a medical wing maybe, but no doubt at an Overwatch base.

Just. Gotta stay calm. Yeah. He could do that. Jesse’s breath came in ragged puffs from fear, and he worked to calm them. Breathe slowly. Slower. …Not quite but good enough hopefully. He wasn't dead yet, not locked away behind bars; at least not at the moment, and if he played his cards ri-.

He froze.

Should have expected it really, but the curtain in front of his bed being very suddenly tugged open came as more of a shock than Jesse was willing to admit. Stupid. Distracted. Things that could get a man killed real quick.

The nurse took his silence as permission to bustle into his space, checking the IV bag and monitors, dutifully ignoring his shocked form as much as she could while doing her job. By the time the girl was satisfied all was well and leaving the way she came, Jesse had managed to shake free of his frozen state and focus on the fresh emotions circling in his chest.

Fear. Anger. Suspicion. Confusion. All together a swirling mass of shit fucked sideways encased in an icy grip. Whose grip, exactly, he couldn't say, but that would be something he probably wouldn't learn until it was far too late.

And to his displeasure, he was ultimately forced to wait. And wait. No large, fear inducing person suddenly walked into his little room of curtains to kill him in the following minutes, nor the hours after. The nurses and doctor refused to speak to him beyond anything purely related to his medical state, no information to be had about his fate beyond that he was healing. If nothing else, he used it as a small reassurance Overwatch didn’t intend to kill him. No sense in taking the life of a man they worked so hard to keep alive. Hopefully.

Later, after the lights had dimmed in a way he assumed meant it was night out and that he was supposed to go to sleep, his anxiety had swooped back in. He’d killed people. Lots. There was no way Overwatch didn’t already know, and if somehow that was the case, it wouldn't stay that way for long. They'd trace the bullets back to his gun, simple as that. No one else in Deadlock bothered with a six shooter anymore, much less most handguns in general. Assault rifles and shotguns were the weapons of choice; large intimidating things. A puny gun for a puny kid, they'd said when they first tossed him that rusty revolver years ago. There'd be no doubt about any of it.

So  _ why _ hadn't anyone acted yet? The suspense left Jesse anxious and paranoid, jumping at the small sounds that were probably night nurses making their rounds. The night was spent fidgeting, tugging at his bonds weakly out of nervous habit, and by the time morning rolled around hours later, he was left feeling exhausted and no better about the situation.

Two nurses came and went in the following hours, one gently cleaning Jesse's right eye and changing the bandage. A few more cursory questions were asked about his health and medical history, and while he really didn’t have the right frame of mind to even begin to want to answer, he figured he really didn't have much a choice.

When some big official looking asshole  _ finally  _ invaded his safe space hours later, his nerves had had it. The teen felt frayed and anxious, ready to lash out if the man came to close. He kept his distance, though, at least for the moment. The intruder was fairly tall, right about six foot if he had to guess, and fairly packed with muscle. As far as Jesse could tell, the man was Asian, probably Chinese or Japanese, with the sides of his head buzzed short and a fluffy mass of hair at the top of his head that didn’t quite qualify as a mohawk. He was dressed in a dark gray form fitting undershirt of sorts and sweatpants, and the visible muscles left McCree on edge. There was a small patch of short facial hair on the man's chin that looked remarkably similar to Jesse's own, if a bit more cleanly taken care of. The scowl on the asshole’s face matched his, too.

Another nurse popped in a moment or two later, quickly come over into the teens space and unhooking him from the various monitors after they’d been shut off. He sat ramrod still as she went about her business, visibly struggling not to lash out when she set to peeling off the stickies on his chest and the gauze over his eye. Hurting her would be bad, would get him in even more trouble since she’d be classified as an innocent party.

After everything was removed, she cast a quick glance back to the intimidating Asian behind her and when he responded with a brief nod, the leather cuffs around Jesse’s wrists were undone and the nurse was out of his ‘room’ faster than he could blink. He immediately drew his hands up onto his lap, half curling to his brain's insistence of needing protection.

The man before him seemed largely unconcerned and tossed a ball of clothing on his lap that Jesse hadn’t even noticed the guy holding. A black longsleeve with bright orange accents, dark gray pants, a pair of socks, and a pair of boxer briefs.

“Get dressed, kid,” he was told, voice flat. When Jesse looked up at him, about to throw a barb about how creepy it was for a grown ass man to watch a ‘kid’ change, he was met with a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed glare.

“I know what you’re going to say so don’t bother,” he says. “I’m about as happy about it as you are, but you can’t be trusted. Save me the trouble of arguing and just do what you’re told.” McCree can’t help but deepen his scowl at the older man, but grudgingly gives in to orders, tugging off the hospital gown.

Everything fits about as well as he expected, which is to say not very well at all. The legs of his pants are too long, the waist to big to stay on his hips in any iteration of well. The shirt is about the right length, but the shoulders too huge for him to fill out and  the collar a bit too loose for his liking. He was a bit better off with the socks and underwear but not by much.

In the midst of his fussing with getting the heel of one sock where it belonged on his foot there was very suddenly a whole lot Asian directly inside of his personal space bubble and a cuff on his right wrist, this time of the hard light variety. He lets a small frown color his face at the fact that he doesn't know how to unlock these ones. Goddamn, though, if he hadn’t had enough of being in handcuffs to last him for the rest of his life. Jesse doesn’t get the chance to even  _ attempt _ throwing a punch, instead being swiftly manhandled around to get his other hand locked into place alongside the first. He managed a poorly placed kick among it all, done mostly out of frustration, but his antics are ignored as the teen is none too gently dragged out of the bed he’s spent the past day or so stewing it with his fear and anxiety.

And then Jesse’s being shuffled forward by the man behind him, a large hand on the cuffs and another on his left shoulder to steer him. They march out of the wall of curtains, and a quick glance around shows nothing more than walls of hanging fabric and a few doors when they get to a more open space at what he assumes is the front of the room.

Unsurprisingly they left the room behind, stepping into the hallway and continuing forward. The man behind him directs Jesse through a myriad of corridors, many similar enough that he can’t easily distinguish between them if he wasn't actively absorbing details and forming plans. However if the Asian knows, he seems largely unconcerned and content to let Jesse keep at it. Overconfident.

They keep going, descending one flight of stairs and taking an elevator ride down another two levels followed by more stairs and similar looking hallways before they finally reach a security clearance checkpoint. McCree’s legs are aching just a bit by then due to however long it was that he was passed out in that bed, and it really wasn't helping his mood any.

His captor, meanwhile, had typed in a quick access code and placed his palm against a scanner pad, allowing himself a soft hum when it flashed green. The door in front of them hissed open, and Jesse almost wished he could say he wasn't surprised when the next hallway didn’t look any different from the last.

“Regretfully, I don't have clearance for the suite they wanted you in, so you get to buddy up with a roommate for a few minutes until the boss finishes up,” he's informed, hardly resisting as he's led over to the second door on the right. Another hand pad sits just to the right of the door, however it seems a code isn't necessary for this one and his escort’s handprint suffices with another flash of green. Another hiss, and the door was sliding open just like the first.

The fact that there was another person inside the room came as more a shocker than it should have being Mr. Muscles  _ had _ told him that he'd be sharing the interrogation room with someone else for a little while, but still. The chamber itself was just as modern as the rest of the facility, no cliche dark room with single light bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. No, it was bright and utilitarian; light bars spaced evenly across the ceiling, smooth concrete floor, a fair sized table in the middle with little locks built into the top of it to clip some unlucky fucker’s cuffs to, two chairs, and the obligatory mirror along the left wall.

The most shocking thing, though, was who this room’s unlucky fucker was. The guy was seated in the chair with its back to the door, and Jesse watched the muscles there tense when the door opened. Fear. His shoulder length red hair was a blood and oil matted mess, the smell of sweat and unwashed man strong in the room; he’d probably been in here a few days then. The shoulders were tensed, the man looked ready to spring though Jesse knew he wouldn t have a snowflake’s chance in hell actually pulling anything off; it's why he himself had pretended to be so compliant. Just wait for an opening. No, McCree knew this man and everything about him seemed counterpoint to when they'd pulled off that raid a week or so ago. When they'd jumped the train transport. The bloodthirsty trigger-happy asshole of a new guy who'd gone with him and Will, the one that McCree honest to God couldn't remember the name of. Sitting cowed and afraid and in shitty shape while apparently not even being free of questioning yet, despite the fact that Jesse  _ knew  _ the sting was at least a few days ago.

If that wasn't enough to put a teaspoon of terror in his bones, then damn. Never let it be said that Overwatch wasn't full of persistent assholes, then.

Asian Dude had apparently had enough of his little pitstop of fear at the threshold, however, and had very suddenly decided dragging Jesse into the room by an iron grip on his bicep was the next viable course of action, the door hissing shut behind him. Jesse himself was very suddenly much less willing to go quietly now, go figure, but the teen’s struggles were treated as meager at best and easily diverted. Seconds later Jesse was bodily pushed down into the chair opposite Redhead by two large hands on his shoulders and the chain connecting his cuffs easily snapped into the little D-ring on the table. Spring lock, by the sound of it.

And just like that, his escort was leaving.

And Jesse panicked. He very much did not want to be locked in a room with this asshole, thank you kindly, for however long it took for ‘the boss’ to make his (her?) way around and set him up with is own little slice of heaven. Nope.

“Hey hey hang on, how long ‘m I gonna be in here for again?” he questioned, unable to help the tremor of fear accenting his voice. The asshole didn’t even pause, had already made it over to the door and started entering the credentials to open it. Both a passcode and a handprint this time apparently.

“No clue, kiddo. Could be a few minutes, might be a few hours. Wouldn’t hurt to get comfy.” And with that, he was gone, door sliding shut behind him and leaving McCree alone with this crazy motherfucker.

Shit.

He watched the man across from himself with narrowed eyes, before quickly growing bored. He wasn’t  _ doing _ anything. The guy had only marginally relaxed, shoulders still made of stone and head hung low, a mess of vibrant red hair in front of a face the Jesse could tell was beat to hell just from the bits the teen  _ could  _ see. So he leaned back as far as his cuffs allowed him, slouched in the chair, and set to staring at the ceiling for a while. And a time longer. And another eon. 

Jesse groaned, boredom so thick in the air that if his hands weren't tied down he could probably reach out and touch it.

Goddamn.

He didn’t even have a good way to measure time, nor did he trust his own internal clock since he was well aware that in situations like this his sense of time gone past was worse than .

So he redirected his gaze back to Redhead, the only thing in this entire fucking room capable of offering any kind of entertainment. McCree’s fear had abated some, and now he really couldn't deny that he sort of wanted to know what Overwatch had done to his temporary roommate to make such a man so cowed. Purely to prepare for the tactics they'd try on him. Yeah. That.

Still, he gave himself an extra ten minutes or so to psyche up to it. As much as he didn’t want to admit that he was more than a little afraid of what had whipped this guy, he couldn’t really deny his fear either. The short scream that echoed down the hall a few minutes back might have been playing a part too, but that was besides the point. Mostly.

A deep breath.

“The hell did they do t’ ya to beat out yer surefire cockiness?” Jesse questioned, trying hard to sound as bored as he had felt a few minutes ago uninterested, like the answer didn’t matter either way. He watched as Redhead went stiffer than a board, head drawing further down and hands balling into white-knuckled fists.

“Don’t talk to me,” was the only answer he got. The hell? Jesse frowned at him, trying to puzzle out why that was his answer. Was he scared to tell McCree? Had he been told not to? Was he just trying to be an ass and withhold information because he could. He felt his eyes narrowing to slits again, and didn’t even trying biting back the need to be contrary if only because.

“What kinda answer is that, asshole?” Jesse grits out, not bothering to hide irritation. And finally, Redhead tilts his head up just enough to glare at the kid in front of him. His face was a mess of blood and dirt, one eye socket a gross mix of red and purple, a long and deep looking cut under the other an ugly amalgamation of scab, pus, and inflamed tissue. His lower lip was split and in the process of healing, the shape of his mouth set in a hard grimace. And through it all, an undertone of fear and anxiety, visible in the hardness of his eyes, the soft flair of his nostrils, and weight above the frown of his eyebrows.

“Fuck off, kid,” the man across from him gritted out, and just like that the asshole’s face was turned down and out of view again. McCree couldn’t help the snarl raising to his face or the low growl he let out but left it at that, his heart racing.   
“Well fuck you too, then, an’ have a wonderful fuckin’ day.” Back to staring at the ceiling, then.

He decided to count himself lucky when he heard heavy footsteps outside the door to their room probably half an hour later, because hell he couldn’t have survived in this room much longer. The sound of the door ghosting open was almost familiar at this point, and he didn’t give the person intruding on their stewing pot of fear and anger the satisfaction of his attention, instead choosing to remain slouched and facing skywards with eyes held closed in a pale imitation of relaxed.

Heavy boots methodically made their way over, and he heard the soft hitch in breath the resident asshole made, but as much as he wanted to call the other guy out on it Jesse didn’t much feel like talking around their newfound third wheel. McCree heard the soft rustling of clothes from the person standing to his left, followed by a soft beep and click of the lock keeping his cuffs to the table. When Jesse failed to react in the following handful of seconds he very abruptly realized that it probably wasn’t his best idea to play dead, the strong fist that buried itself in the long hair at the back of his head a dead giveaway. 

He hardly had time to let out a panicked shout before he was swiftly and painfully dragged off his ass to stumble behind the newest abuser towards the door. It’d apparently stayed open this time because there was no stopping to unlock it, but Jesse couldn’t be bothered to unscrunch his eyes or even try facing his head away from the floor, bound hands scrabbling for as much of the meaty forearm as he could reach. Dimly he knew he was whining out cusses and half formed pleas for mercy on his poor scalp, but the fire from the tug that had initially gotten him standing still hadn’t abated and there was a foreign wetness around his eyes that was most definitely not tears.

McCree honestly couldn’t have said how far they walked, just trying to keep up with the pace being set to avoid further abuse. He opened his eyes when they did finally end up stopping, seeing a wall and another door just in front of a large pair of tall black combat boots. And then the door was open and a hiss falling from his clenched teeth as he was once again jostled along after his captor.

A second hand got a grip on his wrists and snapped the chain of the cuffs into a lock identical to the one in the first room, and when the merciless fist in his hair pulled his ass down into the waiting chair he went without a fight. Jesse was finally free of the grip seconds later and let out a breath while his seat was rough pushed a bit closer to the table in front of him, head hanging low and pounding.

With that, he heard his newfound buddy walk away and around the table, the chair across from Jesse making scrabbling noises as it was dragged across the concrete and the shifting sounds of fabric as a body settled in it. Stubbornly, he refused to look up, keeping his head down and eyes on his lap.

And when the person across from him lets out a long, exasperated sigh, Jesse McCree knows he’s in for a very long game of bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know if you see anything funky with spelling/grammar, I've been staring at this for days now and just can't anymore//  
> Super excited though because I've been thinking about where I want to go with this story every day at work so I have a bunch planned!
> 
> Also, I've got a few questions for everyone, please respond in the comments if you'd like!
> 
> Firstly, what are your opinions on using some OCs to fill out the Blackwatch cast? I've got no intention of them stealing the focus from McCree and Reyes, much less even writing from their perspective, but they'd be used to help nudge the plot along and give McCree somewhere to start out with as far as socialization goes! Please drop me your thoughts/opinions/suggestions and maybe even your own OCs for this if you'd like! I've got two in the works currently but would like to have 3-4 to be used semi-regularly and a few more to just namedrop when Reyes is listing off orders during missions and whatnot.
> 
> Secondly, any thoughts on the inclusion of shippy/implied shippy content? Currently I don't any intention to include any and to leave it open ended for the reader's interpretation but I have considered vaguely implying either past r76 or a crumbling r76 as the story goes on. Thoughts, anyone?
> 
> Thirdly, I have plans to drag this story all the way up through Recall and help Reaper through his mess before finally bringing this story (series?) to a close. As it stands, this particular story would end with Zurich, and the second would pick up shortly before recall. There'd also be a short story in between the two following Genji's journey to inner peace after he left Blackwatch that'll only be a few chapters long. Are people willing to read stories/series this long anymore? Let me know!
> 
> Lastly, should I make a tumblr for this? It'd be primarily used to ramble about headcanons I intend to use, periodically let people know how far done I am with the next chapters, and for readers to leave comments, questions, and suggestions! (and so that I don't need to leave end notes this lengthy on the chapters rip)


	6. Chapter 6

It did indeed end up being a very long and stupid game of twenty questions. Which, if Jesse McCree had to guess, was a mighty hard game to play when there weren't any answers being given in response to the inquiries. Such a shame, really, but not really his problem either. Instead, he dutifully kept his head down and his mouth shut as his interrogator watched on in silence, evidently expecting an answer to the latest question this time as well.

Go figure.

He hadn’t looked up once, hadn't spoken a word. Deadlocks don't talk, a rule held above all others, and hell if he’d break that law. He wasn’t that stupid.

Instead he focused on the sounds that filled the silence when the man across from him wasn’t talking. A leaking spigot on the wall behind him, dripping a single drop every thirty-seven seconds on the dot. The soft creak of the metal folding chair he’d be seated on if McCree shifted too far on it. Steady breathing from the person across from him; inhale for two seconds, exhale for three. The next question.

“How long have you been with Deadlock?” It was the fourth time Jesse’d heard it, the man having gone fully through his list of inquiries thrice now and was steadily working through it yet again to make a full number four. Eighty-three questions, starting with his what his name and age were and ending with where ‘the Quarry’ was located and when Nilsen had taken the reigns of the chapter outside of Phoenix, Arizona.

Drip.

The length of the expectant silences between questions varied, probably by the importance of the info they needed and if they already had some answers they wanted to confirm. As one might expect, the pauses only got bigger the further his interrogator got on the list.

To McCree’s surprise, the man had even tried switching to Spanish once or twice in the beginning, likely thinking the gangbanger in front of him didn’t speak English. Instead, he kept his face and pulse carefully tempered, to at least keep that one secret his. Better for them to think less of him, it’d make any chance of escape at least a tad bit higher if they underestimated the dirty kid cuffed down in the basement.

Drip.

There was a distant scuffling of boots on concrete somewhere in the hall, back in the direction they’d come from. A barely there hiss of a door sliding open, almost familiar at this point.

“When did you earn your tattoo?”

Voices; far off, murmured, and muffled. Impossible to understand, the soft cadence of it almost comforting in a way. Not enough to combat Jesse’s mounting anxiety, though; not by a long shot. There were very few ways that he’d be leaving this room alive and it weighed heavily on him. There was still so much he wanted to _do._

Once again, the hiss of a door down the hall. More shuffled footsteps echoing on the walls. Growing louder, coming closer.

 _Danger_ , his mind screamed. _They’ll torture and kill you for staying silent so long,_ it insisted. He felt his stomach twisting in knots, body tensing against his will. Footsteps coming ever closer; just one set. His hands clenched tight on the tabletop, knuckles a pale, pale white. Soft tapping from outside the room, the nearly familiar hiss of the door opening. A long-suffering sigh from the man across from him.   
Still, Jesse refused to look up.

“[Did you need something important] _?_ ” his captor asked, but in Spanish, to McCree’s surprise. Perhaps his acting on that front had been good enough to fool them then, which meant they were trying to keep information from him. A better result than he expected, to be honest.

The interrogator had shifted from what the young gunslinger could hear, probably to face the intruder on their little heart to heart talk head on. A man clearly used to his intimidation speaking for him if he regarded subordinates with with such a lax grip on command. Dangerous.

“[You are needed down in 5B, sir. FC07 has come to a decision and has requested your presence to finalize the deal],” the new face informed, voice smooth but his Spanish taking on a strange lilt due to an accent McCree didn’t recognize. There’s another sigh from his friend of three hours, but Jesse can hear the man shift and then stand from where the teen sat, still staring at his lap. He hadn’t yet relaxed his fists on the table, and to be honest felt more like a thread ready to snap from tension than he did an actual person at that point.

The shuffling of movement on the other side of the table paused, and McCree felt the back of his neck prickle with unease from what was probably a rather firm stare from his captor.

“Think about how you want to answer those questions, kid. I’m sure you won’t like what happens if you keep me waiting for too long, and I’m a very busy man.” And with that, he was leaving. A fire burned in him at being called a kid again, but most of the anger sat compactly under the fear and tension threaded in his muscles. He did, however, take a small risk and glanced up before the two men could completely disappear. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say, but he figured he’d be a dead man sooner or later anyway. He was a bit startled when he vaguely recognized one of them, to say the least.

While he only got a glance at the first person; richly dark skin with an even blacker buzz cut and heavily shaded tactical sunglasses, the second man looked awfully similar to the one who’d shut down his stint with the Strike Commander. Shaven head covered with a beanie, a brief flash of facial hair complimenting dark skin when he turns his head just so, a hoodie, sweatpants, and combat boots, all in the same shade of dark gray. He just barely caught the flash of an emblem he didn’t recognize on the guy’s shoulder before the door automatically slides itself shut; a circular thing with some kind of skull in the center of it colored in shades of red and white.

Drip.

Seemingly all at once, he felt most of the taunt anxiety bleed from his form, disappearing with the departure of the apparent boss and his minion, heaving out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d be holding. Deal to finalize with someone else, huh? If this was Overwatch, then perhaps a government official? They were always swaddled up in political bullshit from what little media Jesse’d seen out in the the desert, so it wouldn’t be unrealistic to assume. Then again this guy seemed to be some sort of bodyguard for the Overwatch Commander; the secret service type. Maybe the other guy from Deadlock, then, as a way to get information like they were trying to do with McCree himself? A soft frown colored his face, and he idly rubbed one thumb with the other as he glanced towards where the Deadlock tattoo lay hidden under the long sleeve of his shirt.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

 

\--------

 

It was nearly a full two hours before his interrogator came back, and McCree still didn’t feel any more prepared to deal with him again than he did when the man had first left. All the time alone in the relative silence had done nothing but twist his nerves up into a tight little ball again, and if he was being honest he was getting tired and hungry. Jesse still wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been passed out in the medical ward for, but he knew that he hadn’t eaten anything since the morning before the raid and hadn’t slept since he woke up at least a day ago. It was slowly wearing him down and it’d be his undoing if he wasn’t careful.

Drip.

He kept his head firmly angled down as the man settled in the seat across from him once again, holopad in hand and ready to read his list of questions from again. There was a residual tacky feeling in his right eye and he honestly didn’t want to deal with any of this right now, if ever.

“Alright, kid, I’ve got questions and you’ve got answers, so how about we keep this as painless as possible for the both of us,” the man rattled off, and McCree felt himself bristling at the term ‘kid’ again. They must have figured that out pretty easily then and decided to use it as a weapon against him. The teen felt his blood boil a little hotter, and decided that two could play at that game.

“We’ll start small like before. What’s your name, kid?” And with the repeat offense, the gangbanger threw caution to the wind and let rage take the reigns, too tired and anxious and tense to sit through hours more of this once again. In a show to prove his meek compliance gone and in a position with nothing to lose, Jesse finally raised his head and looked the man across the table dead in the eyes, fire burning in his own. Someone had clearly already talked anyway, what would it hurt if he had a little fun with it?

“Joel Marricone,” he sneers out, lips drawn back and teeth on display in a grim snarl. His captor looks a touch surprised by his sudden change in demeanor, but soon narrows his eyes and taps the response on his tablet. McCree feels no remorse in lying; the other guy clearly knows it isn’t the truth and at this stage the teen wouldn’t care even if his lie was believed.

“Age?” he’s asked, the other’s voice suddenly much flatter than it had been seconds previously. He probably already had a lot of these answers noted down on that fancy piece of tech anyway, courtesy of other Deadlocks squealing in moments of weakness. He wouldn’t do the same, instead intending to do his best to piss this guy off in the short time he had left before they’d realize his uselessness and kill him. Best to make the most of what little control he had left.

“27,” he drawled, laying on the accent thick as could be managed with four syllables. It’s Beanie’s turn to scowl now, not even bothering to type Jesse’s last answer down.

“I can do this all day, kid,” he grits out, tone bleeding slowly darker with irritation.

“Well damn, wer lucky!” McCree responds with far more cheer and southern charm than would be acceptable for any circumstance. “This ’s rare, old man, you don’ realize how incredible it is that ’ve been able ta squeeze ya inta my already busy sched’le.” He’s grinning by the end, looking just this side of manic if Beanie’s brief flash of disgust is anything to go off of. To McCree’s displeasure, though, he’s back in business mode after a soft huff of annoyance.

“How long have you run with Deadlock?” His voice is level and firm, eyes hard like the guy thought it’d force an actual answer out of him.

“‘Bout two decades ‘go, I reckon,” the teen responded, feigning ease and relaxation as he glanced down to pick at the dirt under his fingernails. Beanie is scowling again.

“Who lead your chapter?” Jesse can hear the irritation gradually leaking back in, and can’t help but grin wide as he looks back up at the man seated across from him.

“Why, that’d be ‘lil ol’ me,” he nearly laughs out, anxiety nipping at his heels as the gunslinger ran with abandon towards what would certainly be his doom before long. The other man is less than amused.

“Bullshit. You think I’d buy that they’d let some punk who can’t even grow the peach fuzz on his chin lead such a high profile gang?” He snorts, shaking his head a bit. “At least be a bit more creative if you feel like spinning lies. The ‘Marricone’ thing was at least a bit cute considering your wannabe cowboy aesthetic, but that last one didn’t even have any effort it in. Try again, pipsqueak.” He knew Beanie was goading him and wasted no time diving for the bait, the teen’s expression darkening and his grin going straight back to an ugly snarl as he tried to lung over the table in tense rage. Beanie didn’t even flinch, must have known McCree wouldn’t have been able to get very far, the chair he tried to spring up out of refusing to budge back to let him stand proper, or even at the very least get his butt more than a few measly inches off the seat. Locked in place somehow, probably with electromagnets. After a few tense seconds of trying to fight it he let himself sink back down to sitting, seething with teenage angst and breath coming heavy through clenched teeth. It only irritated him more as his interrogator watched on with a single raised eyebrow, seemingly unflapped in the least. _Fuck_ this guy.

The asshole still wasn’t done, apparently.

“I’m only going to say this once, you dirty little ingrate. You can cooperate with us and things can go nice and smooth, or you can continue to be an unyielding piece of shit under the heel of my boot. In the end, the choice is yours, but if you think you’d be happier rotting in a cell at the worst maximum security prison I can find, then be my guest.” The words were brutal, shook him more than he’d like to admit. Truth be told none of this was what he’d ever wanted, not back before he’d gotten suckered into Deadlock as a kid. There were things left yet that he still wanted to do, but there just wasn’t an easy way out of this, and at this point Jesse McCree didn’t know if he preferred the release of death or the severed freedom of the slammer.

“I can’t say I really see th' point, old man. ‘Cause far‘s I can tell, tha’s where ‘m gonna end up anyhow. What’m I ta gain by helpin’ you any?” Jesse can hear the fear and weariness in his own voice, knows the man across from him will sniff it out like a bloodhound and use it against him. The fear and tension are spiking again, blowing back in to fill the void left behind when the blinding rage dissipated. It makes him feel like a shell, cold and hollow. It takes the teen by surprise when instead of sinking wicked sharp claws in his exposed weak points, Beanie instead sighs and scrubs a hand down his scarred face.

“Jesse McCree. Age 17. Deadlock’s best sharpshooter. Thirty-one confirmed kills prior to last week, countless more unconfirmed if your gang mates’ bragging could be believed. Several counts of theft, arson, and property damage among countless other charges. Second highest bounty of all the Deadlocks we dragged in, dead and alive both. All at the age of 17.” Hearing it all listed out like that almost made it seem more real, and the young man flinched. It stung, in a bitter sort of way. Still, Beanie kept on going.

“Forensics matched 14 bullets to your gun from the recent firefight plus 3 from the raid you and your buddies made a week prior, and all but 4 of the 17 shots we found were fatalities. Each kill was a clean headshot, of the survivors one had a bullet in his side and the other three came back with varying head wounds. One with a graze across his temple, another with a deeper gash across her forehead, to the last who got the bullet lodged in the back of his skull. Luckily it was shallow enough that it won’t leave lasting damage, but my point still stands. Kid, why the _fuck_ are you running with Deadlock instead of your senior year of high school, and how the _ever loving HELL_ have you single-handedly killed 13 of my best men and women in the span of just over a week?” The man’s voice rises steadily from clinical coldness to a near boiling anger, the rage simmering along the words like fire. Jesse stays quiet for a time before meeting the other’s eyes and responding.

“Ya missed a bullet,” His voice is soft, almost unassuming. Almost. He watches as his interrogator turned lecturer narrows his eyes dangerously.

“Pardon?” The word slides smooth, cleanly layered with ice that Jesse is sure he’ll slip and fall on.

“You said ya found seventeen shots,” He drawls, taking the risk anyway, “but if tha’s the case then ya missed one.” He lets his tone settle into an imitation of relaxed, although he’s sure the other man can see right through it like fresh water.

“Kid, is this really important?” The older man can’t help but give a tired sigh, sleep has been a rare luxury for him as well apparently. McCree’s only vaguely surprised at the chill that seeps into his own voice.

“Is askin’ ‘ _why’_ really all tha’ important?” His questioner stops, watches McCree for a few moments with such intense gaze the the teen nearly squirms under it, likely notes the harsh expression Jesse wears like a battle scar. From what Jesse can tell he finds what he’s looking for before the man sighs, stands, runs a hand over the signature headgear with a glance to the left, and looks back to Jesse.

“You’ve got two options, kid. One, you keep on telling me whatever the hell you feel like saying, I put you through a grossly unfair trial, and you spend the rest of your days in max. You’ll be shipped off to someplace other than where all your buddies we brought in are settling in for the long haul, and I personally guarantee the rest of your pathetic life is hell. Two, you fill me in on a few details I haven’t been able to hammer out of your friends, and if it checks out you work for me.” A heavy silence hangs between them, and McCree is almost afraid to speak, that to make any noise at all would prompt the other to start laughing and call him a stupid kid for even partially believing something so impossible sounding. Work for this guy? There’s no way he could be serious, but with wide eyes and half parted lips Jesse lets hope start to sink its traitorous claws into his heart.

“Yer lyin’ t’me. People like me don’ get second chances.” The teens’s voice is soft and tapers off at the end, almost fragile in the way he stutters on the first word. The intimidating asshole he’s spent so many hours with as of late raises an eyebrow in faux disbelief.

“They don’t? Well you learn something new every day, I suppose. Give my regards to the judge, yeah?” He turns, picking up the holopad left forgotten on the table as he does, before heading towards the only door in the room.

“Wait! You, uh…. Ya wasn’t jokin’ with me…?” He speaks softly, almost like he’s scared of the answer. Beanie pauses and looks back over his shoulder.

“I don’t joke, kid.” McCree stays quiet for another few precious moments, fiddling with his fingernails before looking up, still no more confident than before.

“I’d like option two then,” He pauses, barely audible, as he looks back to his fingers. “Please.”

The grin that breaks across the dark man’s face is almost unsettling after the tense and delicate minutes leading up to it, but it clearly isn’t meant to be malicious. The faucet behind Jesse had stopped leaking at some point.  
“I thought you might see it my way.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I've been really sick this past week and valiantly trying (and failing) to keep up with school and all these new lore drops from Blizzard over that past month! Looks like we'll have another Blackwatch friend further on down the line, although it'll definitely be a while before Moira makes her way in! ^^
> 
> Unbeta'd, as always let me know about any spelling or grammar hiccups so I can get those fixed!

The man who walked back over to his little table and sat down seemed to be almost a completely different person to the one Jesse’d spent the last few hours engaging in verbal fisticuffs with. A change in posture, maybe, making Beanie seem like less of a brick wall and more of a human. A gentle shift in his expression and a softer look in his eyes, making the man less intimidating that he absolutely had to be.

It helped, a little.

If McCree was being honest, though, he was still terrified. This man had power over him now, at least more than before, and it meant that if Jesse wasn’t careful everything could be ripped out from under him with a simple command. Not all that dissimilar to Deadlock, the more he thought about it.

The man seated across from him was busily tapping away at his tablet, pulling up various files that McCree couldn’t make sense of from his angle.

“Ares?” Beanie called out, voice light, phrasing it as a question of sorts. McCree didn’t know how to respond, what to say-

“Yes, Commander Reyes?” The voice that responded was artificial, masculine sounding, and it terrified the young man. It seemed to originate from somewhere above but he couldn’t pinpoint the source and suddenly found himself to be short of breath. An AI? Or maybe a god program? Either way, it spelled trouble, and Beanie seemed almost _casual_ with it. Overwatch wouldn’t be working in cahoots with a _god program_ , though, would they? It had to be an AI, it wouldn't make sense for them to be working with the very thing that started the Omnic Crisis.

“See if you can track down someone already awake,” He commanded. “The punk needs something to eat, healthy if you can manage it, and a couple bottles of water couldn’t hurt.” There was a short pause before it responded. Ares is what the guy had called it? And… it had called the man across from him Commander? Hell. More than just a bodyguard for the Strike Commander, then.

He wouldn't mind something to eat, though. Jesse hadn't properly eaten anything since before the sting, and he'd been studiously ignoring the ache in his stomach. McCree had gone far longer without food in times past, but that didn't mean it was ever a pleasant experience.

“Agent Carver assigned. Do you need anything else, sir?” Reyes, apparently, gives a short hum before answering.  
“Have him bring me down a coffee and spike it with Hyperion if we have any on base. If not, Blue Razz works just as well,” His response is nonchalant, finally having the files he needed pulled up and setting the holopad flat on the table between them to project what he wanted to show just above the surface of the tablet.

“Requesting permission to inform Dr. Mur-”  
“Request denied,” The commander shoots down Ares before the AI even has a chance to finish its sentence, voice suddenly a lot more firm than it had been seconds previously.

“On that note,” he continued, slowly sliding back into a civil tone, “Murray should be just about done with Bray by now, not? See if you can set up a preliminary physical for our new agent here in about, say, an hour from now?” Images appeared in the projection, and Reyes arranged them to his liking before giving a brief hum of approval.  
“Appointment scheduled,” the voice informed. “Would you like an alarm set?”

“Give me a heads up about five minutes prior if we aren't en route,” he decided. “That will be all, Ares.” There are no further replies from the AI, and McCree instead turns his attention to what exactly the Commander had projected above the table. A written report of some kind, two pictures, and one even grainier image, a top down shot of sorts that looked an awful lot like a satellite capture. Video, he quickly amended, noticing the small triangle in the center of it. It unsettled him more when he recognized the road leading up to the Panorama Diner on Route 66, and the smoking train wreckage from the day of the sting. And the little figure right next to the gorge that he knew to be himself.

Of the two pictures that were pulled up, one was a grainy shot of himself, taken secretly given that Jesse didn’t remember it being snapped. It’s a profile shot, and he’s standing with his gun at attention and his left hand hovering over the hammer. The second image is a macabre collage, showing several different faces, all with a neat bullet hole right between their eyes. Most look to be a part of Reyes’ posse given that the bit of clothing he can see on their shoulders looks similar to what those agents had been wearing the day of the sting. A few others look just like regular civilians, and they just might be for all he knows. Jesse can’t say he remembers any of the faces but he would be willing to bet that not all of the pictures are recent.

The pit in his stomach sunk deeper as he realized what they wanted from him. They knew what he’s capable of, at least partially. They wanted a killing machine, both efficient and accurate, to mow down the enemies of Overwatch. A tool, not a person. Vaguely, Jesse wondered if maybe he could make a break for it once they let him out of this room.

The Commander had been watching him with observant eyes as McCree soaked up the information floating between them, and gave a thoughtful hum after a good few moments to get the teen’s attention back on himself.

“Just to let you know, Deadlock is gone. Even of you did manage to run, there's nothing left for you out in that desert.” It's said casually, as if the information Reyes was dropping was inconsequential. As if it wasn't a thinly veiled threat.  
“Moving back to important matters,” he decided, “I’m sure you recognize a lot of this.” The tone was level and carefully unassuming. Dangerous. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d do me the favor of filling in some blanks.” With that, Reyes reached forward and started the video file. It was almost hard to tell exactly what was going on at first what with the poor quality.

The video was short, a few seconds at most. There's some brief shuffling from the little figure Jesse knew was himself before it stopped moving for a solid three seconds, at the end of which six people go down simultaneously.

“Now,” the man across from him continued, voice entirely too cheery, “explain to me what the _fuck_ we just saw here, because whatever the hell you did has zero explanation thus far.” The commander’s tone dropped straight to ice cold at the first expletive, and so did Jesse's blood as the dread of what might happen set in. McCree’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared to answer the question, didn’t know if he should be honest or try to lie his way out.

On one hand, if he told the truth and explained Deadeye to them, he’d more likely than not become little more than a weapon in their eyes. A thing to kill with and good for little else. On the other, the teen doubted that he’d be able to pull the wool over this man’s eyes. He seemed to know just how to get inside Jesse’s head and read his thoughts, which severely limited anything he might be able to try later on down the road.

Still, Reyes watches on.  
“You’re thinking pretty loud, punk,” he remarked, shifting his eyes to the document pulled up and absently scrolling through the text. “I’d recommend just spitting it out, it’ll be less painful for you when it’s all said and done. Build trust and camaraderie now and your life won’t be quite so hellish further down the road.” And despite the fact the Commander’s words did have some sense to them, McCree still didn’t have a reason to trust him, either. Fear be damned, he’d try his luck.  
“I… I don’t rightfully know what happened,” he answered, carefully choosing his words, a light frown covering his face. “There was just,” he started, letting the frown deepen and glancing up to the ceiling just above the door behind Reyes. “All of a sudden there was six guys on th’ ground and I didn’t know how.” It's flimsy; he knows it, Reyes knows it, but McCree can't claim that he was ever good at improv.

“Bullshit,” was the response he got, rapid-fire and without hesitation. The man didn't even give McCree the courtesy of meeting his eyes, apparently far more interested in the report he had pulled up. “I know you did it twice during the sting and I've got a record right here of some funny business involving multiple people being suddenly dead in an impossible timespan, and you just so happen to be present. Go figure, huh?” The stare Jesse is fixed with after the tirade is one more filled with exasperation than anything else, an eyebrow arched in disbelief at the teen’s antics.

Jesse’s mouth was dry, and he averted his gaze. He had no excuses, no lies to tell or stories to spin. But the truth is dangerous, will be the anchor of the chains that will bound him to this place. A gilded cage as opposed to the cold bars Jesse could have gotten. Not entirely dissimilar, in his opinion.

Faintly, McCree could hear a set of footsteps in the distance, and he couldn't help the mounting fear that it brought with. His right hand twitched in the table, itching for the firm and reassuring weight of his rusty old six-shooter. A luxury he knew he wouldn't be afforded for a long while if ever again outside of killing for his taskmaster.

The sound of heavy boots grew closer, echoing faintly. McCree still didn't answer.

The Commander, for his part, was apparently willing to be patient with him, at least for a little while. A small victory, then.

As the sharpshooter suspected, the steps stopped outside their door and seconds and a few soft beeps later the door slid open, though McCree wasn't brave enough to look up, instead staring at his thumbs on the tabletop. Reyes gave Jesse the mercy of instead focusing his attention on the man who’d just entered, and it come across as another small win for the teen. Anything to get such a powerful gaze off of him.

With the newcomer came the strong scent of coffee, but intermixed with it was an almost fruity smell, certainly sweet and sort of sticky but in a way he didn’t quite understand.  
“Morning, sir.” It’s said with a smile, voice soft if a bit heavy and laced lightly with sleep and a faint accent that wasn't quite southern. The back of McCree’s neck tingled and he figured the guy must be fixing him with a look of some sort. More unwanted attention. “New recruit I take it?” It wasn’t spoken with malice, but something more akin to mild curiosity.

“Mhm,” responded the commander, as the teen risked a small glance up to see the man across from him taking things from the newcomer’s hands and setting them on the table. A thermos, a small baggy of what appeared to be almonds, two disposable water bottles, and finally a sealed clear plastic cup of grapes amounting to about the size of his fist.

“It looks like he’s got some skill with a gun,” Reyes continued, “and provided he’s willing to cooperate with me, he’ll receive a ‘get out of jail free’ card and a job to boot.” The look he fixed the young gunslinger with was a pointed one, an eyebrow raised in an almost questioning manner. Jesse rather quickly fixed his gaze back down on his hands, unable to keep up eye contact with the man.

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” the other responded, not haughty or disdainful, but instead amused. Agent ….. something. Started with a C. The AI had used that name in reference to whoever’d been told to bring the food and shit down, so it’d make sense. “On the topic of stubborn recruits, how did Bray check out?”

Reyes took a second before responding, apparently drinking from the strange smelling coffee thermos. “I haven’t received any critical notifications from Ares yet, so I think it’s safe to assume that he survived the good doctor’s fury. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you’d pay him a visit, though; I think he got pretty lonely these past few days,” The commander had shifted his attention to picking at the crinkly seal keeping the grapes shut, and Jesse couldn’t help but look up again. Fruits happened to be a bit of a rare commodity in the desert anymore, go figure, and it’d been too long since he’d last had any fresher than an expired can of peaches.

Agent C gives a soft chuckle in response. “I’m not surprised, and I intend to drop in sooner or later to see how he’s doing.” Reyes gave a nod and a triumphant sounding grunt as he finally managed to pry off the plastic wrapping.  
“Dismissed, then,” the commander informs, and after a brief nod and a soft ‘understood’, Agent C turned and left. McCree catches sight of his back; the guy was dressed in a dark gray hoodie matching the one Reyes sports and the brown hair on his head is short and neatly kept. Slightly older than the man seated before him, around forty maybe. And a few seconds later he was gone, door sliding shut behind him, leaving Jesse with the intimidating monster of a man hell bent on pulling answers from him.

“So,” Reyes starts, pausing to take another drink, “I need to know what happened here before we discuss anything else.” He popped the lid on the grapes and tossed one in his mouth before taping the play button on the video again. Once again, a second of motion, a few more of stillness, followed by six bodies suddenly on the ground. If the teen was being honest with himself, he was paying more attention to the cup of grapes that was _supposed_ to be his, if he’d heard right.

He could feel the anger rising in his chest again when Reyes quite suddenly snapped his fingers a few times to get the teen’s attention. McCree blinked in surprise and lifted his face enough to stare the man full on in the face, scowl still present.

“You want these? Start talking.” His tone is back to serious, all nonchalance gone. Jesse wasn’t sure how much information he wanted to sacrifice for a cup of fresh fruit, but the commander apparently didn’t have the seemingly infinite well of patience he’d had before and spoke up once again after a minute or so of silence.

“What the hell did they jack you up on, kid?” The question threw him for a loop. Jacked up? Like, drugs? How would that even factor in here? Thankfully, the man keeps going. “The medical staff haven’t found any trace evidence of stimulants in your bloodstream, bodily fluids, or hair samples, nor have they found any obvious changes in your genetics compared to the average person, so this isn’t a permanent effect like the SEP was.” Jesse frowned. He wasn’t sure precisely what they were getting at here. How would being high even equate to killing people? “My sources don’t report you ever partaking in anything other than tobacco, either.” McCree felt his eyes narrow. Sources? “Thus, the question still stands. What were you hopped up on that made it possible for you to kill six men in three seconds with perfect accuracy?”

It still didn’t make any sense to him. Unless this guy thought they’d doped him up on steroids or something? McCree’s confusion was plain as day, apparently, and Reyes had stooped to a dark frown.  
“Explain, kid, unless that jail cell has started sounding appealing to you?” It doesn’t sound much like a question to him, and Reyes popped another grape in his mouth with a challenging look after a handful of indecisive seconds on Jesse’s behalf. Fuck it.

“I don’t need no drugs or nothin’ to do it,” he gritted out, sinking a bit lower in his seat, heart beating faster. “It’s jus’ somethin’ I picked up a coupla’ years back.” Not entirely a lie. “I really don’ know how I do it, not really, anyhow.” He tried to stay calm and collected, but his mind kept screaming that this was a terrible mistake, that he’d never be free again. The man across from him was a scary mix of curious and disbelieving, probably suspecting it as another lie but not finding the tells to prove it.

“Elaborate.” McCree shifted, trying to collect his thoughts and reasonably explain the impossible.

“I jus’.... stop. Sometimes it’s like th’ whole world slows down, and there’s nothin’ but me an’ the guys I’m fightin’.” He breathed deeply, attempting to settle his nerves. It didn’t help much. “Then it’s jus’ choosin’ the targets ‘n shootin’ ‘em. It’s only ever a clean shot ‘tween the eyes.” Jesse’s watching his hands again, how the blue glow of the hard-light cuffs made his skin seem pale and papery, voice fragile and his sanity feeling much the same. Reyes was quiet, and it made him anxious.  
“So what you’re saying,” the commander begins, speaking slowly, disbelief potent, “is that you can just _look_ at someone and kill them, whenever you want, so long as you’ve got a gun in hand?” McCree wanted to shrink under his gaze, and nodded softly in response.

“It’ll give me headaches after it’s all said an’ done, though. Worse if I use it ‘gain too soon.” Reyes gave a thoughtful hum.

“You mean something akin to the sorry state we pulled you in with?” the man questioned. Jesse could only nod again in response. Reyes paused in thought before responding.

“Alright, kid, I’ll take your word on this until I can confirm it myself later.” With that, Reyes eased up from leaning on the table, sitting back in his chair with his right hand searching for something just under the edge of the table. He found what he was looking for, apparently, with a sound of triumph and the lock that held the chain of McCree’s cuffs to the table releasing.

The teen was surprised, to say the least, but startled out of his thoughts when the damned cup of grapes was dropped between his arms. A quick glance up caught the commander sinking back into his seat and drinking his stupid sweet smelling coffee, apparently at ease.

Jesse was left in stunned shock for a few seconds before responding. Was it really that easy these guys? Regardless, he didn’t hesitate much longer. It took a second to figure out how to best maneuver what with the handcuffs still around his wrists, but he quickly settled on simply resting both hands around the cup and tilting it just far enough back to tumble just a grape or two between his teeth at a time. McCree felt stupid doing it, knew he looked like a toddler with a sippy cup, but it was the easiest option he had at the moment. And Lord Almighty, the supple juiciness of the fruits made it worth the dent in his pride. Reyes let him get through nearly half of the cup before drawing the teen’s attention back.

“Last question, kid, and then we can bring you back up to medical and get you a file going.” Jesse could feel himself tense at that, the thought of having detail about himself on paper raising his anxiety again. “How do I know you won’t bolt the second you see an open door?” Cue skyrocketing anxiety, then. “Dragging your ass back in out of that desert again is something I don’t have the time to be doing, and I’d rather not have to reschedule our flight back because someone thought they’d play hooky.” Reyes spoke with seriousness, again watching him with that intense stare; gauging his reactions. And to be fair, McCree didn’t really have a good answer to that. Given the chance, he’d have to admit that he would more than likely make a break for it, try and make it back to his childhood home. There wasn’t much left there anymore but dust, destruction, and debris, but he was nearly eighteen now, old enough to maybe find a way to make things work. No longer a lost, starving child. But perhaps what he’d been offered was a viable option, too. So, he tried again to be truthful; the commander seemed to value that.

“I can’t make no promises here,” he started, sounding tired and worn with his gaze glued firmly on his fruit cup. “I ain’t entirely sold on this whole ‘job’ thing ‘ya got for me, an’ there’s still a spot waitin’ for me out there. But… maybe this can work too.” Reyes waited before responding, apparently considering McCree’s words. He could feel his chest winding tighter as each second ticked by.

“I can work with that, I suppose.” The man gave a soft snort. “Not a blatant lie, at least.” There was some motion and a swift pop from the commander, and by the time Jesse had glanced up to try and catch the source of the sound, one of the water bottles was dropped in front of his face much like the grapes were, lid cracked open and loose. He couldn’t help but jump just a bit at the sudden intrusion in his space, hands clenching around the grape cup.

“Finish your fruit and drink at least half of that bottle,” he’s told, Reyes picking up the tablet from the middle of the table and beginning to very swiftly tap away at it. He frowns lightly but doesn’t argue, content enough to munch away at the satisfying fruit and attempting to beat back the anxiety trying to wrest control of his mind.

The cup is empty far too soon and he’s left with little more to do other than finish untwisting the lid from the water bottle and drink from it like he had with the grapes, again imitating a little kid with a cup. Reyes, apparently, finished getting whatever he needed done on his tablet soon after McCree had started on the water bottle, and was standing hardly half a minute later.

“Up, kid, and follow me,” is the only instruction he gets, the other man standing and collecting the bag of nuts and spare water bottle and shoving them into a pocket in his sweats, the crinkly plastic and empty grape cup shoved in another. The tablet was shoved under one arm and the thermos in hand and then he was up and leaving. Startled, McCree quickly recapped his water and scrambled up out his chair, legs shaking a bit after having spent so much time sitting the past few days.

Reyes had walked ahead to the entrance, handprint scanned and six-digit code entered when Jesse makes his way over. And like that the guy is moving again, out the door and down the hall almost faster than Jesse wants to follow. A man on a schedule, for certain.

He does his best to keep up, water bottle held close. It wasn’t long before they were back at the end of the hall they entered in, at the security checkpoint. Another handprint and eight-digit code later, the door was open and they were on their way again. McCree almost groans at the stairs when they reach them. Still, he dutifully follows the commander up the three sets, as they walk past the elevator that he’d originally come down the with Asian guy.

After that, it was a lot more hallways and doors that he couldn’t tell the difference between. Too standard and bland, and although most had little plaques next to them, Jesse didn’t have the time to stop and read. Another elevator ride later and they were back on the ground level as far as McCree could tell. He could spy the occasional ‘EXIT’ sign hanging above some doors, confirming his suspicions. And all the while, Reyes was quiet. Focused, apparently, on getting where they needed to go. Thankfully, it didn’t take much longer. He followed through a set of double doors and Reyes stopped in front of another room down the next hallway.

Jesse couldn’t help but take half a step back when the man rounded on him, catching the emitter on McCree’s left wrist in his free hand and lining up his thumb on it. And seconds later, the light flickered out and his hand was free. The teen was left standing there stunned yet again as Reyes repeated the process on the other cuff and expertly caught the remaining chain and emitters before stuffing that too in a pocket, this time in his hoodie.

“Best behavior now, Doctor Murray can be a bit… forceful with his practice in the face of uncooperative action.” He grimaces as he says it, apparently reliving memories. Jesse couldn't help but be curious there, narrowly managed to keep his mouth shut. “I’d rather you not be passed out for the next eight hours or we won’t be able to get your paperwork finished.” With that he pushed the door before them open, leaving the teen staring at his back with a fearful frown. The hell had he gotten himself in for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so much for the kudos and comments you leave, they keep me going! Please don't be afraid to leave them even if you're shy, those little email notices I get have gotten me through my sickness this past week and i greatly appreciate them! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say I'm so sorry for the delay, I've been dealing with a lot of writer's/artist's block for the past while, not to mention holidays and schoolwork have played their part as well! However, enjoy the read and expect more sooner or later!

McCree didn’t follow after him right away, instead casting a glance back down the way they’d come. He’d seen at least two ‘EXIT’ signs above doors; it wouldn’t be impossible to make a break for it. He’d have a head start, maybe be able to get twenty feet or so before the commander realized what was up. The problem arose with the fact that he didn’t actually know where he was, outside of being in an Overwatch base. It couldn’t be  _ too _ far from the Gorge, at least no more than a few states at most. Still, they had the hometown advantage here. Best to wait until he knew more before trying to run.

He looked back towards the door Reyes had walked through, having only a minor difficulty pulling his eyes from a possible escape before entering in after him.

The room itself as small, longer than it was wide. There was an elevated exam table against the left wall, topped off with the obligatory crinkly paper, a set of cabinets both above and below the counter top on the right and back wall, and a small, raised desk with a computer resting on it and bar stool chair before it. A portion of the far wall above the counter top was a window instead of wall mounted cupboards, but it was too dark out to see anything. Probably some unholy small hour of the morning if the commander’s earlier words were anything to go by.

Reyes, for his part, had just finished emptying the bits of plastic trash from his pockets into the small trash bin by the desk before seating himself in the spare chair by the door. The tablet was settled on his lap as the darker man pulled the baggy of almonds from his sweats and tossed it in Jesse’s general direction.

“Sit down on the table over there and make a start on those, see if you can't finish off your water too.” McCree can't help the way his hands tighten around the plastic bottle and gets several obnoxious crackles for his fidgeting. “I've got another one waiting for you when that one’s empty, by the way,” he finished.

Jesse rolled the small zip bag of nuts in his hand before turning to the exam table, setting his items down on top of it, and hopping up onto the space next to them. He couldn’t help the flinch he made as the liner paper crinkled under his weight. A quick glance to Reyes earned him a small nod and approving hum. “The doctor should be around in the next few minutes or so, just hold tight,” was all he got from the other man before he settled back in to work on his tablet and sipping his coffee.

The last thing McCree wanted to deal with right now was more waiting; he was exhausted and famished, not to mention the frayed remains of his nerves. The past twenty-four hours had been nothing but a series of waiting games, and he was sick of it. Apparently, though, this was the fate he was stuck with, and so Jesse settled on slowly munching on small fist-fulls of almonds and staring out the window into the inky black abyss. At least it made his eyes burn less than the lights along the ceiling did.

Ten minutes and half a bottle of water later, he latched on to the sound of approaching footsteps, and sure enough they came right up to the door of their room and waltzed on in.

Predictably, the man who came in was a doctor, and looked about how the stereotype dictated his should. No white coat, but a light blue dress shirt and plain tie with a pair of muddled gray-green slacks to match. Close cropped hair, medium brown with bits of gray sneaking in at the temples. All in all, he fit the general stereotype; at least something in this place did. It surprised Jesse with how much of a steadying reassurance that was, but he'd take what he could get.

Jesse, however, was apparently not in the doctor's focus for the moment. Instead, the new arrival was staring down at the commander with a disapproving glare and scrunched nose.

“Please tell me that's not what I think it is,” the doctor demanded, voice flat.

“It's not what you think it is,” Reyes parroted back, seemingly unperturbed and not bothering to look up from the screen of his holopad; even being so bold as to drink from the thermos in question. The groan the doctor makes in response is one of frustration, and the man finally shakes his head and walks past the commander and over to the small desk and barstool in the corner.

McCree was left to sit quietly for the next few minutes as the doctor went about pulling up reports and files on his screen. Every second felt drawn out, weighed down by his exhaustion and boredom. His right eye still gave the feeling of a strange stickiness whenever Jesse blinked, and he wouldn’t deny scrubbing at it with his fist a number of times to no avail. He was still hungry and emotionally worn and not even remotely more willing to deal with anything than he had been ten minutes ago. When the urge to groan in frustration sweeps by he doesn’t deny it. It feels almost childish, even to him, but the other two men are apparently still content to ignore him and continue at the sluggish pace that had been established.

And so he waits; sips at his water, traces the faint lines left on his wrists from the hard-light cuffs, crinkles the empty almond bag for good measure if only to hear something other than the occasional tap of keys from the computer.

It feels like ages later when he’s finally acknowledged.

“Jesse McCree, yes?” the doctor asked, McCree nodding as way of confirmation. The doctor nods back before responding with “Ethan Murray, I’ll be your primary physician until we can sort something out later.” 

The man then set to collecting various items from the cupboards on the wall across from Jesse; a blood pressure cuff, a small holopad to record numbers with, a stethoscope that Jesse prided himself in recalling the name of. Murray brought the items over to him, and he wished he could say he was surprised when the other invaded his personal space promptly thereafter. The nearly empty plastic bottle in his hands crackled under increased pressure from his grip, and McCree almost lost his cool when the doctor moved the end piece of his listening device under the teen’s shirt. He refrained from socking the other man in the jaw, if only barely, knew his breathing was quick and his heart rate even faster. The doctor quickly moved to his back to listen to his lungs, and while it helped his nerves a tad, the concept of having what was nearly a total stranger at his back wasn’t a comforting one either.

Thankfully, Murray didn’t mention it, but unfortunately did bring up another topic McCree was loathe to discuss with him of all people.

“Are you a smoker, Jesse?” The tone implied that he already knew Jesse was, his lungs probably told that story on their own, but he felt himself bristling at the inquiry.

“Does’it matter if I do ‘er don’t?” he shot back, trying to put more bravado into his voice than he really felt. Murray gave a snort, easily seeing through his flimsy defence.

“Yes, because if you do you’ll be stopping from here on out. You’re a minor and should not be smoking at your age, nor drinking for that matter,” the other stated, apparently unperturbed by the teen’s vehemence.

There was a snarl building at the back of McCree’s throat until he caught the look Reyes had shot his way. At that he abruptly cut the noise off at the clear question and obvious threat written in that one raised eyebrow. No, he wouldn’t throw it all in the can for a smoke but damn if he wasn’t pissed as hell over it. There was still the ghost of a growl under his breath as he settled back down on the table he hadn’t even realized he'd been half standing from.

Murray had since set his stethoscope aside and was holding the blood pressure cuff up in an obvious request for McCree’s arm. He acquiesced, although not without a grimace to show his displeasure. It’s painless and over quickly if a bit uncomfortable, of course, but that doesn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

Numbers were marked down on the little holopad, on his personal file by the look of it. Jesse was shooed off the table then, the water bottle plucked from his hands and set back on the paper liner, with McCree himself being shuffled over to the ruler and scale next to his previous perch. Murray gives him a polite nudge in the direction of the wall, near the ruler, and while he does go, his blood is still burning hot and the will to comply is at an all time low. So, while he does happen to be standing in the correct spot, he instead leaned back against the cool drywall, slouched, and crossed his arms over his chest.   
The doctor is less than impressed with McCree’s scowling and angst, and while the withering stare the older man shoots back is hard to hold, he manages for a while. Well enough until a firm look of disapproval and stern “Kid,” came from the commander, anyway. For as weary he was of having his life held in the grip of another, Jesse didn’t have much of a choice in it this time. It’s then that he makes a mental vow to get out from under the thumb of these people, sooner or later, once and for all. Someday he’ll be free, live his life as he chooses, with no assholes to tell him how to live his life or what to do.   
It’s with that grim determination that McCree finally stood up straight, let Murray get a number on his height, and allowed himself to be shuffled to the scale for his weight. The number was less than desirable, apparent by the doctor’s scrunched up look, but no comment is made and the young sharpshooter is allowed to sit back down on his table. The paper still crinkled under him, but from all the shifting he’d done so far the noise wasn’t as severe as it had been when he had first hopped up. Murray gave a soft hum as he got numbers recorded on his holopad before looking back up to McCree.   
“Any health concerns you’d like to mention?” The question is asked with innocence, but he knows Murray is expecting something from him. Must suck.   
“Nope,” he returned, popping the ‘p’ of it.

“And can I inquire about the severe blood loss you came in with, the unexplained bleeding your eye was doing?” McCree tensed again, clenched his fists and curled in on himself slightly in response. That wasn't any of his business and he was a pretentious fucker of he thought he was getting anything.   
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, it won’t happen ‘gain.” He watched as a handful of emotions flit across the doctor’s face before he finally settled on firm adult. As if that of all things would make Jesse yield.

“As your primary physician it’s my job to know about any conditions that might affect you-”   
“Its the result of overdoing some sort of special ability he’s got,” Reyes interrupted, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t let it get out of hand again.” Murray rounded on him, scowling and clearly losing his temper. Jesse would have felt betrayed if he'd had any trust in the man to begin with, but instead it left a pit of disgust and dislike at the other for outing him.

“Such as how you kept Agent Bray in line?” It sounded like an accusation, but McCree didn’t know enough to even guess at what it might have entailed. The commander, for his part, seemed largely unruffled and even gave a casual shrug in response.   
“He actually would have come in worse than he already did if I hadn’t talked him down,” Reyes responded, sounding as unconcerned as he looked. “The original idea involved a few missing fingernails and a few broken bones.” Apparently that hadn’t been what Murray wanted to hear, though, and the doctor threw his hands in the air before stalking back to his computer.   
“You know what? Just go. I’ve got what I need aside from a blood sample and I’m sure I can get one from the infirmary. I’m done with you two,” His tone bleed exasperation, and McCree took an ounce of satisfaction in it. At least he managed to piss off  _ someone’s _ today.

The commander took the dismissal with little more than a hum of understanding before the tablet was once again stowed under one arm and the other man was standing to leave. McCree took that was his cue to follow, hopping down from the table with a small amount of relief and leaving his trash behind to be an extra pain. Reyes said nothing, didn’t even bother to cast a look at Jesse before heading right out the way they came.

He followed, as he was expected to, while the older man lead him through the base once more. They passed nothing of note, in Jesse's opinion, but he sulked at the two more flights of stairs they has to take. There were clearly elevators here, why the hell couldn't they use them instead of these stupid fucking stairs?

He paused his mostly internal grumbling as they walked through what looked like a lobby of sorts, waiting room chairs tastefully arranged around the occasional coffee table with magazines stacked up neatly on them. It was the far wall that held his attention a little longer, however.

From floor to ceiling it was covered in glass panes with light just starting to seep through over the visible horizon. A very distant horizon, at that. It was startling obvious that they were up high, higher than a few stories in a building, for certain. It reminded him of the few times he’d stood on the edge of the canyon wall above the gorge, the birds eye view he’d had of everything, all the buildings spread out beneath him. 

He couldn't pick much out from the pre-dawn light, but damn if it wasn't reminiscent of those stolen moments of quiet.

It took him a second to realize he’d lagged behind Reyes, and scrambled to catch back up to. It seemed unlikely that the commander would be forgiving of him being lost or on his own at the moment.

The lobby is left behind, McCree following Reyes into the connecting hallway. There were engraved plates mounted on the doors, gold and shiny, but he didn't stop to read them. Jesse was so engrossed in his reminiscing that he nearly ran face first into his commander’s back, the man having apparently stopped at a door and in the process of scanning his hand on the biopad.

The door wastes little time whisking open, with Reyes again entering with no hesitation and McCree left standing on the threshold with no small amount of trepidation. It looked like a standard office, the lights flicking on automatically nearly as soon as the door had opened and illuminating the space.

It was more spacious than the exam room had been if only by a little, as well as deeper than it was long. The windows on the far wall were covered by blinds and drapes, none of the early light even peeking through. A half bookshelf sat against the left wall to the back, a coffee table and two plush looking chairs situated under the window. Immediately in front of Jesse sat another two chairs, tilted to better face the desk Reyes was walking around to the other side of. It was shaped like it belonged in a corner, though the polished black sides of it assured him that it was meant to be on display. The right side of the thing was flush with the wall, a two monitor computer setup arranged where the long sides met at the center. The top of it was mostly organized, a stack of files and papers to Reyes’ left along with a number of paper baskets with neat labels, a box of tissues in a sleek black dispenser, a small container of paper clips and various other small office supplies, and a slim printer at the very end.

The commander had since settled into the swivel chair on the other side, coffee and holopad resting on the edge of his desk and the surface lighting up with a virtual keyboard. Reyes gestured for him to sit and while he promptly obeyed, McCree couldn't fight the rising unease.

This was obviously his office, his turf; Reyes held the upper hand here more so than he had in any other place they’d visited so far, and to say it set Jesse on edge was the understatement of the century. By default a man was the most dangerous in his own element; he knew the lay of the land and every possible thing in his vicinity that could be used as a weapon whereas McCree was like a fish out of water. He’d be willing to bet there were no fewer than three guns and at least one knife hidden somewhere in this room, but the teen lacked all knowledge as to where they could be stashed. He didn’t even know Reyes well enough to hazard more than a guess as to where they could be, which left him at a severe disadvantage. It wasn’t like he planned on there being an altercation, but the knowledge that it  _ could  _ happen was within the realm of possibility since guys like the commander usually ran hot, and Jesse wouldn’t stand a chance in hell at holding his own in the current circumstances. It didn’t help that he still felt like a half-dead rat.

His commander seemed completely oblivious to the nearly palpable air of unease exuding from the teen, or maybe he just didn’t care. Probably the second one. Instead the man had unlocked his computer, and opened and moved things around in a flurry almost too fast for McCree to keep up with. It seemed like most of the forms he saw already had a vast majority of the blanks filled in with what looked to be his personal info. He kept quiet though, filling that away for later and wholly unwilling to instigate any hostility until they were in a more neutral space that Reyes didn’t have full dominion over.

He watched on as the other opened a drawer on his side of the desk and pulled out a medium sized pad, perhaps half an inch thick and made of sleek black plastic with an even shinier surface on the top side. It’s placed on the desktop, which lights up around it and indicates it’s syncing with the object based on how the lights move around it. There’s a small ping and the light under it go solid as it’s finally recognized and connected, the surface of the pad lighting up a dark gray that slowly pulses brighter. Reyes went through and set something up on his computer before finally turning to look at McCree head-on.

“Alright, kiddo, hand on the scanner,” he requested. Scanner? Meant to record his prints then, making Jesse frown at the realization. The concept of having his personal information on paper was risky as it was, but having his prints registered as well was an entirely other brand of dangerous. Being catalogued like this meant any identifiers he left anywhere could be collected and directly connected to him. He’d never been on the record officially before, at least not as far as he knew, and if he could avoid it he’d prefer to keep it that way. It’d make getting away later a hell of a lot harder.

When he looked up from his hands to politely decline, however, Reyes was giving him  _ that look _ again, the one that left him feeling like a cornered animal with no real options left. The internal war was waging within him, but after a few short seconds that felt more like an eternity due to the heavy gaze on him, he submitted. He reminded himself as he rested his right palm on the sleek surface that this was the last place on the base that he wanted to start shit, that when he made off into the dust of the desert some fingerprints wouldn’t help them any.

A white bar of light traveled up and down beneath his hand, the small beep at the end indicating he could remove it. McCree inhaled deeply through his nose in an attempt to steady his nerves after, a thing rendered completely obsolete when Jesse was prompted for his other hand and subsequently both thumbs.

With that done and the scanner shifted off to the side and out of the way, Reyes slid his chair back and swiveled just enough to snatch some freshly printed papers from the printer and brought them back in front of McCree along with a pen. These, he was less concerned about. While signing something was binding in legal circumstances, it mean jack shit to him what with having zero respect to legal forces combined with the knowledge that he’d never allow himself to be dragged into a court of law willing or alive even.

So when his commander pointed out which blanks to sign and the date to write in next to it, he complied with something akin to complacency. Not too much later he’s finished with it, and Reyes collected the papers and set them in one of the bins, the one labeled ‘File’. The grin on the man’s face when he turns back to Jesse is unsettling to say the least, but doesn’t read as explicitly hostile or dangerous; just strange on a man that by all rights shouldn’t smile often if at all.

“Welcome to Blackwatch, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it got too long to include the squad like I'd wanted to, but they will for sure be in the next chapter and 100% deserving of all the love. Also the thing with Reyes' coffee; he spikes it with energy drinks when he's been up for too long and most people gave up trying to stop him after the 3rd time they told him he was asking for a heart attack.
> 
> Please leave kudos/comments if you feel so inclined to, they help motivate me! <3 Also, let me know what you think of the amount my descriptiveness in writing (too much, not enough, just right, ect), as I've been thinking of changing that a bit. However I'd like your opinion before I do anything!  
> As usual, please inform me of any grammar/spelling issues, as I've not got a beta nor the time to reread all of it!


	9. Chapter 9

"The fuck’s ‘Blackwatch’..?” Jesse questioned, voice layered with suspicion and mistrust. It sounded like some sort of racist bullshit, if he was being honest, though he knew it likely wasn't the case. Hell, the black guy he'd seen poke in earlier during his interrogation pretty solidly shot that down… Hopefully.

“We’re a covert ops division of Overwatch, specialized in anti-terrorism measures and cleaning up situations that require a stronger hand,” Reyes began. Jesse suspected there was more to it than that, but it fit the bill pretty well with what had happened to Deadlock. So then the commander was still Morrison's guard dog; he was just also the alpha of an entire pack of them.

“Strictly speaking, our team doesn't exist, so we’ll set you up with an official record for cover along with one for us after we evaluate your skills.” McCree felt his stomach drop; he wasn't very special outside of his marksmanship. Besides that, he assumed there were a lot more variables at play here.

“On that note, I've got a few questions for you and expect honest answers, not embellished ones. Understood?” 

Would it be worth it to try and lie again? They’d surely drop him like a lame horse once they realized how useless he was. Then again, Reyes was apparently done with his fibs if the other’s tone was anything to go by.

The teen could only nod reluctantly, averting his eyes from the commanders heavy gaze, anxiety growing towards a fever pitch. Reyes gave a pleased hum.

“First,” the commander began, a stupid self satisfied smirk on his face, “How far did you get in school?” He couldn’t hide his surprise at the question, but it made sense given that these sort of employers preferred their muscle stupid. Easier to manipulate usually. His years in school wouldn't disappoint, but he'd be damned if he let himself be lead around by the nose.

“Made it ‘bout halfway through sixth ‘fore the whole place went up in smoke,” he answered with a subdued voice. Confidence was slowly blossoming in his chest, but he was smarter than most people gave him credit for and knew enough to hide it. If his lack of education was received like it always was and they thought him to be no more than a stupid kid, it'd make running a whole lot easier.

Though of course, getting a read on what the commander was thinking was as impossible as ever. McCree watched as he inputted the information on Jesse’s file, expression relaxed and neutral. He couldn't tell if he was being underestimated or not and it bothered him.

“Next, how would you rate your skill in hand-to-hand combat?” Reyes questioned, voice nothing but serious. McCree had to stop for a second to consider.

“Like… outta ten or somethin’?” He asked, brows furrowed. “Maybe a three…? I waddn’t never too good at throwin' fists.” The commander simply nodded and recorded it.

“And with firearms?” This one had Jesse puffing his chest out, this was where his skillset sat.

“That'id be a ten,” he boasted, letting his cockiness soothe the worries that had built up in the past few minutes. Reyes lifted an eyebrow.

“And have you ever shot anything besides the rusty revolver you came in with?” He sounded mostly benign, but when McCree visibly deflated at the seemingly innocent inquiry the teen couldn't help but notice a barely there twitch under the other's mustache. Fucker.

“No,” he admitted, the word sour in his mouth. It's written down the same as before but McCree got the feeling Reyes was being a smug bastard about shooting him down, even if it wasn't outwardly obvious.

Apparently that'd been all the other man had wanted, and he's given a low hum of approval.

“You’ll be scheduled for evaluations soon to get a more accurate measure on where your skill level sits. After that you'll be on a daily training regime to get your combat up to par and online schooling ‘til you've got your GED,” Reyes stated, and Jesse almost groaned upon realizing the commander hadn't finished his spiel yet.

“Somewhere in the middle of all that we’ll head on home to Zurich, probably about a week from now actually. Once we’re back you'll have one last test to see if you're really black ops material,” the other finished, and McCree stayed quiet. There were a lot of conflicting emotions swirling around in his head and he wasn't sure how to feel much less outwardly react. While he was glad to be given the opportunity to finish his schooling and improve upon his skills, it sounded like a  _ pain _ if he was being honest. A lot of work, for certain. Whatever test they had waiting for him back at…. Zurich he'd said? It sounded damn near ominous to the teen and frankly he wondered if he would be able to pass it. And hell, what would happen if he didn't? Would he be tossed in the nearest jail cell like a ragdoll and labeled a failure with a delinquent past?

Maybe it’d be best to try to get the hell out of dodge after all; if he fucked any of these tests up he could be in some pretty hot shit. Too many unknown variables.

If Reyes noticed his internal turmoil, he didn't say anything; hell maybe he just didn't care. Instead, the older man had pulled a small box out of his desk, and apparently had some trouble prying the fitted lid off. McCree watched the commander's struggle in amusement, but it was cut short when finally he was able to get the top off and lift a medium sized device out of the savaged cardboard.

The screen went from off to a brilliantly bright blue with the Overwatch insignia when Reyes turned it on, which then swapped to a dark, almost black gray with the strange red and white symbol that he’d seen on Reyes’ shoulder. The device was then set upon his desktop, red light circling around it and detecting the device. When the lights finally stopped in a solid border around it, Reyes turned back to his computer to work with whatever it’d pulled up on his screen.

A minute later the commander had picked the thing up again and was holding it right out to Jesse. The teen was dumbfounded for a moment, they were really giving him some kind of tech? Did they really trust him that much?

Hesitantly, he took it, watching as the screen lit up under his fingers to what was apparently the lock screen. The background was still the dark gray color with the bold emblem, a semi-transparent lock icon positioned over it and the time at top in large lettering. Huh. 5:17 AM. No wonder he was so exhausted. Jesse's head snapped up when Reyes spoke.

“That's your comm unit,” he said by way if explanation. “You can unlock it by putting your thumb on the screen,” Reyes paused, watching as McCree did as he had been instructed. The older man gave a nod of approval when the lock faded away and a small number of apps pulled up in it's place.

“Just like that, either thumb is fine. It's not set up to any of your other fingers but if you'd like to you can do that in the settings menu. Anyway, this thing will give you your daily schedule and help you keep on top of various appointments in addition to the messaging and call functionality,” the commander continued, the spiel almost sounding practiced. “It's even got an interactive map of the base, so I don't want to hear anything about you being late, got it?” The barb was laced lightly with irritation; either the man was getting pissy just from thinking about any future tardiness or he was more exhausted than he looked and just was ready to be done as Jesse was. Both, probably.

Reyes abruptly standing with his coffee and holopad in hand and making a beeline for the door was not what McCree expected to happen next, if he was being honest. Though if he thought about it, the past few hours and days had been a lot of not expecting what was thrown in his face, so what was one more? In response, the teen once again scrambled to his feet with comm in hand to follow as the commander opened the door with a tap on the pad next to it and Reyes was out it before Jesse had even caught up to him. Damn, fucker was fast.

They headed back down the hallway they came in with, the large room with the windows showing just a bit more light than it had before. McCree had no other choice but to follow as he was lead through the base and down to the main level, Reyes drinking deeply from his thermos on the ride down on the elevator. It was there that they finally started running into other people in the hallways. Not many, though, and thankfully they kept their heads down or only gave a quick nod to the man leading him. A few minutes later they reached what seemed like a barracks wing.

After leading him down a hall and around a corner, the commander stopped in front of a door, identical to all the rest around them aside from the small plate reading ‘157’ stamped on it. He motioned for McCree to come up to it, which the teen did with a small amount of reluctance.

“Put your hand on the scanner,” Reyes instructed, and Jesse hesitantly did as he was told. The pad under his hand flashed a bright green and when the door whisked open he nearly jumped out of his skin. Revealed was a small room, featuring a twin bed, a chest of drawers with some dark clothes stacked on top with boots on the floor, and a small desk and lamp. Beyond that it was plain; bare walls, no windows, basic bedsheets. Nothing noteworthy; completely lacking in potential weapons and no possible escape routes beyond the door he’d just opened.

Reyes ushered him into the room, following close behind as the door swept shut. The older man then pointed out another small pad on the interior wall next to the door they'd just come through. It was two-colored, half red and half green, with the green side outlined in blue. He was instructed on how to operate it, and was surprised to learn he was essentially given free pass. He wasn't being locked up again despite having been nothing more than a prisoner just a day ago?

“Bathroom and showers are two halls down, can't miss them. Other than that, you've got a uniform waiting for you so get dressed.” McCree turned to look at the stack of clothing behind him, absently wondering if they'd fit or not. “Finally, you'll be written in for a meeting with Captain Liao for this afternoon, keep an eye on your comm and don't be late to it,” he concluded, turning to leave. Impulsively, recklessly, Jesse blurted out the question at Reyes’ back that’d been eating him since he’d woken up.

“Can I have m’hat back?” He asked, sounding rushed and nervous. It seemed like he had already been given so many favors and it felt wrong to ask for more so soon, but he had to know. The way Reyes paused, turned to stop and consider McCree set him on edge; maybe he really  _ had _ asked for too much and being so bold as to request more would result in punishment. Already, fear was coiling in his gut, until the commander’s response left him at loss for words.

“Play nice with us this week and it's yours, kid,” was all he got before Reyes left, sipping at his stupid bean juice. That was it? All he had to do was behave and they'd return it? It seemed almost too good to be true, but then again so did everything else they'd done for him so far. He set his comm aside and walked over to the stack of uniforms, considering his options. Being good for a couple of days would earn back one of his most prized possessions, which was definitely a hoop he could jump through. After that, who knew. The rest of the week could be well spent studying the floor plan and putting together escape routes for if and when things turned sour, because they couldn't possibly plan on being nice to him forever, could they? No, things would change after they got him good and cemented here, that's how these operations worked. Lure people in with lies and fake smiles until they're in too deep to crawl out. He’d need to watch his steps, refused to allow himself to fall into a false sense of security. He just needed to keep out of trouble for a little while, lie low; that he could do.

As it turned out, the uniform left for him did fit a bit better, though not perfectly. The compression shirt hugged his skin in a way he was completely unaccustomed to; made him uncomfortable and exposed, with the shoulders being a bit too large again. The pants were standard military fatigues in the same shade of dark gray as everything else in the pile; too big around the waist, the legs a hair too long. He was surprised to find both a zip up hoodie and a pullover, both baring the skull crest on the right shoulder. Must have been Blackwatch’s symbol. Choosing the zip hoodie, he moved on to the boots. The looked similar to work boots Jesse had seen people wearing back in Deadlock, but instead a dark gray as opposed to tan. To his surprise, they were almost too small. Shocking, considering the general trend with the wardrobe he'd been provided with thus far.

His old clothes were tossed in a pile near the door to be worried about later while he more thoroughly inspected his quarters. None of the drawers in his chest yielded anything other than another blanket for the bed , the desk was completely empty aside from a forgotten pen, and the lamp was functional. Nothing under the bed, or even the mattress for that matter. It wasn't even particularly comfortable. Definitely better that the hard desert earth and probably the hospital bed, but nothing to write home about. 

Staring up at the ceiling and examining the light bar built into it, he conceded to the fact that there was nothing more to take in. The room was bare bones basic and damn near empty even despite that. Bored, he reached over and snatched up his comm device, curious on the finer points of it. It had all the functions Reyes claimed did, plus a camera, alarm clock, and place to write notes. He didn’t trust it not to be unmonitored and conceded not write down anything of importance there.

A sudden buzz from the device and a notification popping down from the top of the screen startled him and resulted in Jesse losing his grip and dropping the dumb thing straight on his face. Scowling, he picked it back up and absentmindedly rubbed the sore spot in his forehead with his other hand. The message informed him that his schedule had been updated and he needed to be in Training Room 3 at 1:15 PM, today. That meeting Reyes had warned him about, probably. It was still early, only half past five. He had time, could get a nap in if he wanted. Swiping the notif away, he went back to examining the apps and settled on pulling up the included map. Jesse waited patiently as the screen flashed white and gave him a spinning ring to indicate it was loading.

When everything came up, he noted his location was helpfully marked on the map and places of apparent interest or importance were denoted with little symbols. Clearly not something he could take with him then when he got around to running, then, if it was so forthcoming with the tracking tech.

The following half hour was spent analyzing the floor plan, learning what levels contained which rooms and committing as much to memory as he could. He noticed with interest that the lowest floor was labeled ‘Information Extraction’ instead of ‘torture’ or ‘interrogation’. Exhausted with that app, McCree went to trying out the rest of them, and had breezed through everything they had to offer a scant twenty minutes later. Sleep was likely the next best course of action, though he was reluctant to rest in unfamiliar places. Unfortunately it was getting near the point that he wouldn't be able to deny it for much longer, much to his dismay. Since he’d woken up in that hospital bed nearly two days ago, he hadn’t gotten any form of rest and had been forced to contend with all manner of bullshit. Ranging from the commander’s insistent pressuring and the stress of having that doctor so near him for however long the physical took, he was nearing his breaking point.

Reluctantly, he set up an alarm to go off shortly before noon with the intention to meander down to the mess hall at that point as his schedule app indicated he should. With that out of the way, he hauled himself under the blanket before realizing he was in need of a bathroom break. Jesse groaned, unwilling to venture out of his room what with all the people out there, but unable to deny his body's needs. 

With that, he grouchily sat back up and put his boots on, mouth pulling down at the small discomfort of the shoe squishing his toes just a bit too close together. Comm in hand, he resolved to be out and right back in nothing more than a handful of minutes.

Unfortunately, life had other plans. While he managed to make it to the bathrooms with minimal confusion, Jesse was interrupted on his way back. He hadn't noticed it at first, a quiet mix of discordant clickings and some other indistinguishable noise. All hall over from his room, however, it was suddenly apparent that the noise was growing louder. He hadn't run into anyone else in the halls yet and had no intentions of meeting whatever unholy abomination was making that noise. 

Unluckily for him, fate didn’t give a single lumpy shit about what he wanted.

When around the corner came a herd of nearly a dozen various dogs followed by two men, he froze in sheer confusion. Both were redheads, though one was clearly a natural copper and the other a familiar and suspicious shade of artificially dyed red with a look of distress suddenly plastered on his face.  _ But why was there a literal pack of dogs here?? _ Instinct trumped reasoning, and McCree had hardly turned heel before every last one of those dogs started barking and set chase. Vaguely, he could hear the shocked shouts and subsequent fall of whoever had been holding the leashes, but that was the least of the teen’s problems.

Predictably, he didn't make it more than a few feet before he was pounced and swarmed by an unholy amalgamation of canine. Fur was everywhere, the stink of dog breath nearly suffocating, and… to his surprise no biting. Just the painful weight of too many dogs trying to stand on him at once to sniff his face.  _ Large _ dogs, he noted sourly. Despite it all, he couldn’t help the oppressive fear clutching his chest or stop the increase in his breathing.

Somehow, through it all he could hear their fallen handlers shouting commands as they gradually freed the teen pinned to the floor. When he was finally able to draw a shuddering breath into his achy chest, he realized there were few times he’d felt such relief in his life. Meaning he should probably thank whoever had saved him from all those mutts. He just couldn’t seem to find the energy right then, though, and settled for staring at the ceiling while he tried to calm his lungs.

“Hey, kid? You alright?” McCree didn’t bother trying to muster up any sort of response, simply allowed the question to hang.

“Shit, we’re in trouble if he’s broke, ain’t we,” the other stated with a tired sigh. It seemed like everyone around here was always tired.

Rolling into a sitting position, he groaned, partially from pain but mostly because he really wasn't in the mood to be social anymore today. Not with these two asshats anyway. When a hand entered Jesse’s field of vision, he only contemplated it for a moment before slowly accepting help and allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. He rubbed his free hand down his face, attempting to quell his anxiety and temper the excessive breathing. It worked, to an extent.

Wearily, he glanced up to the two behind the hoard of dogs, and forced himself to accept that the bright red one had been the new tribute Deadlock picked up. The nasty wounds which had been present on his face back in the interrogation room were cleaned and covered. With disgust, Jesse came to the conclusion that this fucker must have been a rat all along. He seemed too comfortable and well ingrained here already to be a new recruit like he was. Stupid two faced asshole.

Unwilling to deal with it, McCree again turned in the opposite direction, and this time he was able to walk away without being swarmed. A bark echoed down the hallway after him, but nothing else followed and he was able to make it away and around the corner. Out of their sight, he booked it down the last hallway and nearly slapped the hand scanner in his eagerness to be back in his room. 

As before, it slid open, and he wasted no time in slipping inside and getting settled back in. With the lights turned down and comm settled near his head, Jesse snuggled in under the sheets and allowed sleep to finally pull him under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dogs. The squad is dogs
> 
> oof and sorry for the slow update, life is a bully @.@  
> But shoutout to the wonderful Kittenlzlz for helping me out as a beta!


End file.
